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HALLECK'S POEMS. 



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^61' 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 



NEW EDITION. 




y Of C; 



REDFIELD, 

CLINTON HALL, NEW YORK. 
1852. 



TS/780 



Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year One Thousand 
Eight Hundred and Fifty-two, by J. S. EEDFIELD, in the Clerk's 
OflBce of the District Court of the United States for the Southern 
District of New York. 



CONTENTS. 



PA&B 

Alnwick Castle 9 

Marco Bozzaris 16 

Burns 22 

Wyoming 30 

On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake 35 

Twilight 37 

Psalm CXXXH 40 

To **** 42 

The Field of the Grounded A-RMS 44 

Red Jacket 60 

Love 56 

A Sketch 59 

Domestic Happiness 61 

Magdalen 64 

From the Italian 68 

Translation from the German of Goethe 70 

Woman 72 



IV CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A Poet's Daughter 75 

Connecticut - 80 

Music 86 

On the Death of Lieut. Allen 89 

Fanny 93 

The Recorder 161 

EPISTLES, ETC. 

To Walter Bowne, Esq 181 

To **** 186 

A Fragment 192 

Song, by Miss * * * 195 

Song, for the Drama of the Spy 198 

Address at the Opening of a new Theatre 200 

The Rhyme of the Ancient Coaster 204 

Lines to her who can understand them 212 

Extract from an unpublished Poem 217 

Notes 231 



POEMS. 



ALNWICK CASTLE.* 

Home of the Percy's high-born race, 

Home of their beautiful and brave, 
Alike their birth and burial place. 

Their cradle and their grave ! 
Still sternly o'er the castle gate 
Their house's Lion stands in state. 

As in his proud departed hours ; 
And warriors frown in stone on high, 
And feudal banners " flout the sky " 

Above his princely towers. 



10 ALNWICK CASTLE. 

A gentle hill its side inclines, 

Lovely in England's fadeless green, 
To meet the quiet stream which winds 

Through this romantic scene 
As silently and sweetly still, 
As when, at evening, on that hill. 

While summer's wind blew soft and low, 
Seated by gallant Hotspur's side, 
His Katherine was a happy bride, 

A thousand years ago. 

Gaze on the Abbey's ruined pile : 

Does not the succoring ivy, keeping 
Her watch around it, seem to smile. 

As o'er a loved one sleeping? 
One solitary turret gray 

Still tells, in melancholy glory. 
The legend of the Cheviot day, 

The Percy's proudest border story. 
That day its roof was triumph's arch ; 

Then rang, from aisle to pictured dome, 
The light step of the soldier's march. 



ALNWICK CASTLE. H 

The music of the trump and drum ; 
And babe, and sire, the old, the yoiing. 
And the monk's hymn, and minstrel's song. 
And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long. 

Welcomed her warrior home. 

Wild roses by the Abbey towers 

Are gay in their young bud and bloom : 
They were born of a race of funeral flowers 
That garlanded, in long-gone hours, 

A templar's knightly tomb. 
He died, the sword in his mailed hand, 
On the holiest spot of the Blessed Land, 

Where the Cross was damped with his dying breath, 
When blood ran free as festal wine, 
And the sainted air of Palestine 

Was thick with the darts of death. 

Wise with the lore of centuries. 

What tales, if there be " tongues in trees," 

Those giant oaks could tell, 
Of beings born and buried here ; 



12 ALNWICK CASTLE. 

Tales of the peasant and the peer, 
Tales of the bridal and the bier, 

The welcome and farewell, 
Since on their boughs the startled bird 
First, in her twilight slumbers, heard 

The Norman's curfew-bell. 

I wandered through the lofty halls 

Trod by the Percys of old fame, 

And traced upon the chapel walls 

Each high, heroic name, 

From him^ who once his standard set 

Where now, o'er mosque and minaret. 

Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons ; 

To him who, when a younger son,^ 

Fought for King George at Lexington, 

A major of dragoons. 

* * * * 



That last half stanza — it has dashed 
From my warm lip the sparkling cup: 



ALNWICK CASTLE. 13 

The light that o'er my eyebeam flashed. 

The power that bore my spirit up 
Above this bank-note world — is gone ; 
And Alnwick 's but a market town, 
And this, alas ! its market day, 
And beasts and borderers throng the way ; 
Oxen and bleating lambs in lots, 
Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots, 

Men in the coal and cattle line ; 
From Teviot's bard and hero land, 
From royal Berwick's* beach of sand, 
From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and 

Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 

These are not the romantic times 
So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes. 

So dazzling to the dreaming boy : 
Ours are the days of fact, not fable, 
Of knights, but not of the Round Table, 

Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy: 
'Tis what " our president," Monroe, 

Has called " the era of good feeling :" 




14 ALNWICK CASTLE. 

The Highlander, the bitterest foe 
To modern laws, has felt their blow, 
Consented to be taxed, and vote, 
And put on pantaloons and coat, 
And leave off cattle-stealing : 
( t Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt. 
The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt, 

The Douglass in red herrings ; 

And noble name and cultured land. 

Palace, and park, and vassal band, 

Are powerless to the notes of hand 

Of Rothschild or the Barings. 

The age of bargaining, said Burke, 
Has come : to-day the turbaned Turk 
(Sleep, Richard of the lion heart ! 
Sleep on, nor from your cerements start), 

Is England's friend and fast ally ; 
The Moslem tramples on the Greek, 
And on the Cross and altar stone, 
And Christendom looks tamely on, 
And hears the Christian maiden shriek. 



ALNWICK CASTLE. 15 

And sees the Christian father die ; 
And not a sabre blow is given 
For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven, 

By Europe's craven chivalry. -% ^ 

You'll ask if yet the Percy lives 

In the armed pomp of feudal state ? 
The present representatives 

Of Hotspur and his " gentle Kate," 
Are some half-dozen serving men, 
In the drab coat of William Penn ; 

A chambermaid, whose lip and eye, 
And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling, 

Spoke nature's aristocracy ; 
And one, half groom, half seneschal, 
"Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall, 
From donjon-keep to turret wall, 
For ten-and-sixpence sterling. 



MARCO BOZZARIS.» 

At midnight, in his guarded tent, 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 

Should tremble at his power : 
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror ; 

In dreams his song of triumph heard ; 
Then wore his monarch's signet ring : 
Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king ; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 

As Eden's garden bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, 

True as the steel of their tried blades. 
Heroes in heart and hand. 



MARCO BOZZARIS. 17 

There had the Persian's thousands stood, 
There had the glad earth drunk their blood 

On old Platasa's day ; 
And now there breathed that haunted air 
The sons of sires who conquered there, > 

With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 

As quick, as far as they. 

An hour passed on — the Turk awoke ; 

That bright dream was his last ; 
He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 
" To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek !" 
He woke — to die midst flame, and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke. 

And death shots falling thick and fast 
As lightnings from the mountain cloud ; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band : 
"Strike — till the last armed foe expires; 
Strike — for your altars and your fires ; 
Strike — for the green graves of your sires ; 

God — and your native land !" 



18 MARCO BOZZARIS. 

They fought — like brave men, long and well ; 

They piled that ground with Moslem slain, 
They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile when rang their proud hurrah, 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close 
Calmly, as to a night's repose. 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

CJome to the bridal chamber, Death ! 

Come to the mother's, when she feels, 
For the first time, her first-born's breath ; 

Come when the blessed seals 
That close the pestilence are broke, 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
Come in consumption's ghastly form. 
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; 
Come when the heart beats high and warm. 

With banquet song, and dance, and wine ; 
And thou art terrible — the tear, 



MARCO BOZZARIS. 19 

$ 

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bierj 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 
Of agony, are thhie. 

But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free. 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word ; 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Come, when his task of flime is wrought — 
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought — 

Come in her crowning hour — and then 
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 

Of sky and stars to prisoned men : 
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land ; 
Thy summons welcome as the cry 
That told the Indian isles were nigh 

To the world-seeking Genoese, 
When the land wind, from woods of palm, 
And orange groves, and fields of balm, 

Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 



20 MARCO BOZZARIS. 

Bozzaris ! with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
Rest thee — there is no prouder grave, 

Even in her own proud clime. 
She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, 
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree 
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 

The heartless luxury of the tomb : 
But she remembers thee as one 
Long loved, and for a season gone ; 
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed. 
Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; 
For thee she rings the birthday bells ; 
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells ; 
For thine her evening prayer is said 
At palace couch and cottage bed ; 
Her soldier, closing with the foe. 
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; 
His plighted maiden, when she fears 
For him, the joy of her young years. 
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears : 



MARCO BOZZARIS. 21 

And she, the mother of thy boys, 
Though in her eye and faded cheek 
Is read the grief she will not speak. 

The memory of her buried joys, 
And even she who gave thee birth, 
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, 

Talk of thy doom without a sigh : 
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's ; 
One of the few, the immortal names, 

That were not born to die. 



BURNS. 



TO A ROSE, BROUGHT FROM N-EAR ALLOWAY KIRK, IX AYRSHIRE, IN 
THE AUTUMN OF 1822. 



Wild Eose of Alloway ! my thanks ; 

Thou 'mindst me of that autumn noon 
When first we met upon " the banks 

And braes o' bonny Doon." 

Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough, 
My sunny hour was glad and brief. 

We've crossed the winter sea, and thou 
Art withered — flower and leaf. 

And will not thy death-doom be mine — 
The doom of all things wrought of clay- 

And withered my life's leaf like thine, 
Wild rose of Alio way ? 



BURNS. 23 

Not so his memory, for whose sake 

My bosom bore thee far and long, 
His — who a humbler flower could make 

Immortal as his song. 

The memory of Burns — a name 

That calls, when brimmed her festal cup, 

A nation's glory and her shame. 
In silent sadness up. 

A nation's glory — be the rest 

Forgot — she's canonized his mind ; 
And it is joy to speak the best 

We may of human kind. 

I've stood beside the cottage bed 

Where the Bard-peasant first drew breath ; 

A straw-thatched roof above his head, 
A straw-wrought couch beneath. 

And I have stood beside the pile. 

His monument — that tells to Heaven 
The homage of earth's proudest isle 

To that Bard-peasant given ! 



24 BURNS, 

Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that spot, 
Boy-Minstrel, in thy dreaming hour ; 

And know, however low his lot, 
A Poet's pride and power. 

The pride that lifted Burns from earth. 
The power that gave a child of song 

Ascendency o'er rank and birth. 
The rich, the brave, the strong ; 

And if despondency weigh down 
Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then, 

Despair — thy name is written on 
The roll of common men. 

There have been loftier themes than his, 
And longer scrolls, and louder lyres, 

And lays lit up with Poesy's 
Purer and holier fires : 

Yet read the names that know not death ; 

Few nobler ones than Burns are there ; 
And few have won a greener wreath 

Than that which binds his hair. 



B U li N s . 25 

His is that language of the heart, 

111 ^vhich the answering heart would speak, 

Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, 
Or the smile light the cheek ; 

And his that music, to \yhose tone 

The common jDulse of man keeps time, 

In cot or castle's mirth or moan, 
In cold or sunny clime. 

And who hath heard his song, nor knelt 

Before its spell with willing knee, 
And listened, and believed, and felt 

The Poet's mastery 

O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm, 
O'er the heart's sunshine and its showers, 

O'er Passion's moments, bright and warm, 
O'er Reason's dark, cold hours ; 

On fields where brave men " die or do," 
In halls where rings the banquet's mirth. 

Where mourners weep, where lovers woo. 
From throne to cottage hearth 1 



26 BURNS. 

What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed, 
What wild vows falter on the tongue, 

When " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," 
Or " Auld Lang Syne " is sung ! 

Pure hopes, that lift the soul above. 
Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise, 

And dreams of youth, and truth, and love. 
With " Logan's " banks and braes. 

And when he breathes his master-lay 
Of Alloway's witch haunted wall. 

All passions in our frames of clay 
Come thronging at his call. 

Imagination's world of air. 

And our own world, its gloom and glee, 
Wit, pathos, poetry, are there, 

And death's sublimity. 

And Burns — though brief the race he ran. 
Though rough and dark the path he trod, 

Lived — died — in form and soul a Man, 
The image of his God. 



BURNS. 27 

Through care, and pain, and want, and wo, 
With wounds that only death could heal, 

Tortures — the poor alone can know, 
The proud alone can feel ; 

He kept his honesty and truth. 

His independent tongue and pen, 
And moved, in manhood as in youth, 

Pride of his fellow men. 

Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, 

A hate of tyrant and of knave, 
A love of right, a scorn of wrong. 

Of coward and of slave ; 

A kind, true heart, a spirit high, 

That could not fear and would not bow, 

Were written in his manly eye 
And on his manly brow. 

Praise to the bard ! his words are driven, 
Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown, 

Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven, 
The birds of fame have flown. 



28 BURNS. 

Praise to the man ! a nation stood 

Beside his coffin with wet eyes, 
Her brave, her beautiful, her good, 

As when a loved one dies. 

And still, as on his funeral day, 

Men stand his cold earth-couch around, 

With the mute homage that we pay 
To consecrated ground. 

And consecrated ground it is. 

The last, the hallowed home of one 

Who lives upon all memories, 
Though with the buried gone. 

Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines. 
Shrines to no code or creed confined — • 

The Delphian vales, the Palestines, 
The Meccas of the mind. 

Sages, with wisdom's garland wreathed. 

Crowned kings, and mitred priests of power. 

And warriors with their bright swords sheathed, 
The mightiest of the hour ; 



BURNS. 29 

And lowlier names, whose humble home 

Is lit by Fortune's dimmer star, 
Are there — o'er wave and mountain come. 

From countries near and far ; 

Pilgrims whose wandering feet have pressed 

The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand, 
Or trod the piled leaves of the West, 

My own green forest-land. 

All ask the cottage of his birth, 

Gaze on the scenes he loved and sunff. 

And gather feelings not of earth 
His fields and streams among. 

They linger by the Doon's low trees. 

And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr, 
And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries ! 

The poet's tomb is there. 

But what to them the sculptor's art, 

His funeral columns, wreaths and urns 1 

Wear they not graven on the heart 
The name of Robert Burns? 



WYOMING. 



" Dites si la Nature n'a pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour 
tine Claire, et pour un St. Preux, mais ne les y clierchez pas." 

EOUSSEAU. 



I. 

Thou com'st, in beauty, on my gaze at last, 
" On Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming !" 
Image of many a dream, in hours long past, 
When life was in its bud and blossoming, 
And waters, gushing from the fountain spring 
Of pure enthusiast thought, dimmed my young eyes, 
As by the poet borne, on unseen wing, 
I breathed, in fancy, 'neath thy cloudless skies, 
The summer's air, and heard her echoed harmonies. 



WYOMING. 31 

II. 

I then but dreamed : thou art before me now, 
In life, a vision of the brain no more. 
I've stood upon the wooded mountain's brow, 
That beetles high thy lovely valley o'er ; 
And now, where winds thy river's greenest shore, 
Within a bower of sycamores am laid ; 
And winds, as soft and sweet as ever bore 
The fragrance of wild flowers through sun and shade. 
Are singing in the trees, whose low boughs press my head. 

III. 

Nature hath made thee lovelier than the power 
Even of Campbell's pen hath pictured : he 
Had woven, had he gazed one sunny hour 
Upon thy smiling vale, its scenery 
With more of truth, and made each rock and tree 
Known like old friends, and greeted from afar : 
And there are tales of sad reality, 
In the dark legends of thy border war. 
With woes of deeper tint than his own Gertrude's are. 



32 WYOMING. 

IV. 

But where are they, the beings of the mind, 
The bard's creations, moulded not of clay. 
Hearts to strange bliss and suffering assigned — 
Young Gertrude, Albert, Waldegraye — where are 

they? 
We need not ask. The people of to-day 
Appear good, honest, quiet men enough. 
And hospitable too — for ready pay ; 
With manners like their roads, a little rough. 

And hands whose grasp is warm and welcoming, though 
tough. 

V. 
Judge Hallenbach, who keeps the toll-bridge gate, 
And the town records, is the Albert now 
Of Wyoming : like him, in church and state, 
Her Doric column ; and upon his brow 
The thin hairs, white with seventy winters' snow. 
Look patriarchal. Waldegrave 'twere in vain 
To point out here, unless in yon scare-crow, 
That stands full-uniformed upon the plain. 

To frighten flocks of crows and blackbirds from the grain. 



WYOMING, 33 



VI. 



For he would look particularly droll 
In his " Iberian boot" and " Spanish plume," 
And be the wonder of each Christian soul 
As of the birds that scare-crow and his broom. 
But Gertrude, in her loveliness and bloom, 
Hath many a model here ; for woman's eye. 
In court or cottage, wheresoe'er her home, 
Hath a heart-spell too holy and too high 
To be o'erpraised even by her worshipper — Poesy. 

VII. . 

There's one in the next field — of sweet sixteen — 

Singing and summoning thoughts of beauty born 

In heaven — with her jacket of light green, 

" Love-darting eyes, and tresses like the morn," 

Without a shoe or stocking — hoeing corn. 

Whether, like Gertrude, she oft wanders there, 

With Shakspeare's volume in her bosom borne, 

I think is doubtful. Of the poet-player 

The maiden knows no more than Cobbett or Voltaire. 

2* 



34 WYOMING. 

VIII. 

There is a woman, widowed, gray, and old, 
Who tells you where the foot of Battle stepped 
Upon their day of massacre. She told 
Its tale, and pointed to the spot, and wept, 
"Whereon her father and five brothers slept 
Shroudless, the bright-dreamed slumbers of the brave, 
When all the land a funeral mourning kept. 
And there, wild laurels planted on the grave 
By Nature's hand, in air their pale red blossoms wave. 

IX. 

And on the margin of yon orchard hill 
Are marks where timeworn battlements have been, 
And in the tall grass traces linger still 
Of " arrowy frieze and wedged ravelin." 
Five hundred of her brave that valley green 
Trod on the morn in soldier-spirit gay ; 
But twenty lived to tell the noonday scene — 
And where are now the twenty *? Passed away. 
Has Death no triumph-hours, save on the battle-day ? 



ON THE DEATH OF 



JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 



OF NEW-YORK, SEPT., 1820. 



" The good die first, 
And they, whose hearts are dry as summer dust, 
Burn to the socket." 



Wordsworth. 



Greex be the turf above thee, 
Friend of my better days ! 

None knew thee but to love thee, 
Nor named thee but to praise. 

Tears fell, when thou wert dying, 
From eyes unused to weep, 

And long where thou art lying. 
Will tears the cold turf steep. 



36 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 

When hearts, whose truth was proven, 
Like thine, are laid in earth. 

There should a wreath be woven 
To tell the w^orld their worth ; 

And I, who woke each morrow 
To clasp thy hand in mine, 

"Who shared thy joy and sorrow. 
Whose weal and wo were thine : 

It should be mine to braid it 

Around thy faded brow, 
But I've in vain essayed it, 

And feel I cannot now. 

While memory bids me weep thee, 
Nor thoughts nor words are free, 

The grief is fixed too deeply 
That mourns a«nan like thee. 



TWILIGHT. 

There is an evening twilight of the heart, 

When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest, 
And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart. 

As fades the day-beam in the rosy west. 
'Tis with a nameless feeling of regret 

We gaze upon them as they melt away, 
And fondly would we bid them linger yet, 

But Hope is round us wath her angel lay. 
Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour; 
Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power. 

In youth the cheek was crimsoned with her glow ; 

Her smile was loveliest then ; her matin song 
Was heaven's own music, and the note of wo 

Was all unheard her sunny bowers among. 



38 TWILIGHT. 

Life's little word of bliss was newly oorn ; 

We knew not, cared not, it was born to die, 
Flushed with the cool breeze and the dews of morn, 

With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky, 
And mocked the passing clouds that dimmed its blue, 
Like our own sorrows then — as fleeting and as few. 

And manhood felt her sway too — on the eye. 

Half realized, her early dreams burst bright. 
Her promised bower of happiness seemed nigh. 

Its days of joy, its vigils of delight ; 
And though at times might lower the thunder-storm, 

And the red lightnings threaten, still the air 
Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form, 

The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there. 
'Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen, 
Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer green. 

But though less dazzling in her twilight dress. 

There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now ; 

That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness. 

Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow ; 



TWILIGHT. 89 

That smile shall brighten the dim evening star 
That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart 

Till the faint light of life is fled afar, 

And hushed the last deep beating of the heart ; 

The meteor-bearer of our parting breath, 

A moonbeam in the midnight cloud of death. 



PSALM CXXXVII. 

" By the rivers of Babylon." 

We sat us down and wept, 
Where Babel's waters slept, 
And we thought of home and Zion as a long-gone,, 
happy dream; 
We hung our harps in air 
On the willow boughs, which there, 
Gloomy as round a sepulchre, were drooping o'er the 
stream. 

The foes, whose chain we wore, 

Were with us on that shore. 
Exulting in our tears that told the bitterness of wo. 

" Sing us," they cried aloud, 

" Ye, once so high and proud. 
The songs ye sang in Zion ere we laid her glory low." 



PSALM CXXXVII. 41 

And shall the harp of heaven 

To Judah's monarch given 
Be touched by captive fingers, or grace a fettered hand ? 

No ! sooner be my tongue 

Mute, powerless, and unstrung, 
Than its words of holy music make glad a stranger land. 

May this right hand, whose skill 

Can wake the harp at will, 
And bid the listener's joys or griefs in light or darkness 
come. 

Forget its godlike power. 

If for one brief, dark hour, 
My heart forgets Jerusalem, fallen city of my home ! 

Daughter of Babylon ! 

Blessed be that chosen one. 
Whom God shall send to smite thee when there is none 
to save : 

He from the mother's breast, 

Shall pluck the babe at rest, 
And lay it in the sleep of death beside its father's grave. 



•p Q * * % *^ 

The world is bright before thee, 

Its summer flowers are thine, 
Its calm blue sky is o'er thee. 

Thy bosom Pleasure's shrine ; 
And thine the sunbeam given 

To Nature's morning hour. 
Pure, warm, as when from heaven 

It burst on Eden's bower. 

There is a song of sorrow. 
The death-dirge of the gay. 

That tells, ere dawn of morrow. 
These charms m.ay melt away. 



TO ****. 43 



That sun's bright beam be shaded, 
That sky be blue no more, 

The summer flowers be faded, 
And youth's warm promise o'er. 

Believe it not — though lonely 

Thy evening home may be ; 
Though Beauty's bark can only 

Float on a summer sea ; 
Though Time thy bloom is stealing, 

There's still beyond his art 
The wild-flower wreath of feeling, 

The sunbeam of the heart. 



THE FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS. 



SARATOGA. 



Strangers ! your eyes are on that valley fixed 
Intently, as we gaze on vacancy, 

When the mmd's wings o'erspread 

The spirit-world of dreams. 

True, 'tis a scene of loveliness — the bright 
Green dwelling of the summer's first-born Hours, 

Whose wakened leaf and bud 

Are welcoming the morn. 

And morn returns the welcome, sun and cloud 
Smile on the green earth from their home in heaven, 

Even as a mother smiles 

Above her cradled boy, 



THE FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS. 45 

And wreath their light and shade o'er plain and mountain, 
O'er sleepless seas of grass whose waves are flowers, 

The river's golden shores, 

The forests of dark pines. 

The song of the wild bird is on the wind, 
The hum of the wild bee, the music wild 

Of waves upon the bank, 

Of leaves upon the bough. 

But all is song and beauty in the land. 
Beneath her skies of June ; then journey on, 

A thousand scenes like this 

Will greet you ere the eve. 

Ye linger yet — ye see not, hear not now. 
The sunny smile, the music of to-day. 

Your thoughts are wandering up. 

Far up the stream of time ; 

And boyhood's lore and fireside listened tales 
Are rushing on your memories, as ye breathe 

That valley's storied name, 

Field of the grounded arms. 



46 THE FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS, 

Strangers no more, a kindred " pride of place," 
Pride in the gift of country and of name, 

Speaks in your eye and step — 

Ye tread your native land. 

And your high thoughts are on her glory's day, 
The solemn sabbath of the week of battle, 

.Whose tempests bowed to earth 

Her foeman's banner here. 

The forest leaves lay scattered cold and dead, 
Upon the withered grass that autumn morn, 

When, with as withered hearts 

And hopes as dead and cold, 

A gallant army formed their last array 
Upon that field, in silence and deep gloom, 

And at their conqueror's feet 

Laid their war-weapons down. 

Sullen and stern, disarmed but not dishonored ; 
Brave men, but brave in vain, they yielded there ; 

The soldier's trial task 

Is not alone " to die." 



THE FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS. 47 

Honor to chivalry ! the conqueror's breath 
Stains not the ermine of his foeman's fame, 

Nor mocks his captive's doom — 

The bitterest cup of war. 

But be that bitterest cup the doom of all 
Whose swords are lightning flashes in the cloud 

Of the Invader's wrath, 

Threatening a gallant land. 

Ilis armies' trumpet-tones wake not alone 
Her slumbering echoes ; from a thousand hills 

Her answering voices shout, 

And her bells ring to arms ! 



o 



Then danger hovers o'er the Invader's march, 
On raven wings, hushing the song of fame, 
And glory's hues of beauty 
Fade from the cheek of death. 

A foe is heard in every rustling leaf, 
A fortress seen in every rock and tree, 

The eagle eye of art 

Is dim and powerless then, 



48 THE FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS. 

And war becomes a people's joy, the drum 
Man's merriest music, and the field of death 

His couch of happy dreams, 

After life's harvest home. 

He battles heart and arm, his own blue sky 
Above him, and his own green land around, 

Land of his father's grave. 

His blessing and his prayers. 

Land where he learned to lisp a mother's name, 
The first beloved in life, the last forgot, 

Land of his frolic youth, 

Land of his bridal eve, 

Land of his children — vain your columned strength, 
Invaders ! vain your battles' steel and fire ! 

Choose ye the morrow's doom — 

A prison or a grave. 

And such were Saratoga's victors — such 

The Yeomen-Brave, whose deeds and death have given 

A glory to her skies, 

A music to her name. 



THE FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS. 49 

In honorable life her fields they trod, 
In honorable death they sleep below ; 

Their sons' proud feelings here 

Their noblest monuments. 



RED JACKET. 

A CHIEF OF THE INDIAN TRIBES, THE TUSCARORAS. 
OX LOOKING AT HIS PORTRAIT BY WEIR, 

Cooper, whose name is with his country's woven, 
First in her files, her Pioneer of mind — 

A wanderer now in other climes, has proven 
His love for the young land he left behind ;' 

And throned her in the senate-hall of nations. 
Robed like the deluge rainbow, heaven-wrought ; 

Magnificent as his own mind's creations, 

And beautiful as its green world of thought : 

And faithful to the Act of Congress, quoted 
As law authority, it passed nem. con. : 

He writes that we are, as ourselves have voted. 
The most enlightened people ever known. 



R E D JACKET. 51 

That all our week is happy as a Sunday 

In Paris, full of song, and dance, and laugh ; 

And that, from Orleans to the Bay of Fundy, 
There's not a bailiff or an ej^itaph. 

And furthermore — in fifty years, or sooner, 

We shall exj^ort our poetry and wine ; 
And our brave fleet, eight frigates and a schooner, 

Will sweep the seas from Zembla to the Line. 

If he were with me. Kins; of Tuscarora ! 

Gazing, as I, upon thy portrait now, 
In all its medalled, fringed, and beaded glory, 

Its eye's dark beauty, and its thoughtful brow — 

Its brow, half martial and half diplomatic. 
Its eye, upsoaring like an eagle's wings ; 

Well might he boast that wc, the Democratic, 
Outrival Europe, even in our Kings! 

For thou wast monarch born. Tradition's pages 

Tell not the planting of thy parent tree. 
But that the forest tribes have bent for ajxes 

To thee, and to thy sires, the subject knee. 



52 REDJACKET. 

Thy name is princely — if no poet's magic 

Could make Red Jacket grace an English rhyme, 

Though some one with a genius for the tragic 
Hath introduced it in a pantomime, 

Yet it is music in the language spoken 

Of thine own land ; and on her herald roll ; 

As bravely fought for, and as proud a token 
As Coeur de Lion's of a warrior's soul. 

Thy garb — though Austria's bosom-star would frighten 
That medal pale, as diamonds the dark mine, 

And George the Fourth wore, at his court at Brighton, 
A more becoming evening dress than thine ; 

Yet 'tis a brave one, scorning wind and weather, 
And fitted for thy couch, on field and flood. 

As Rob Roy's tartan for the llighland heather, 
Or forest green fur England's Robin Hood. 

Is strength a monarch's merit, like a whaler's 1 
Thou art as taJl, as sinewy, and as strong 

As earth's first kings — the Argo's gallant sailors, 
Heroes in history, and gods in song. 



REDJACKET. 53 

Is beauty ? — Thine has with thy youth departed ; 

But the love-legends of thy manhood's years, 
And she who perished, young and broken-hearted, 

Are — ^but I rhyme for smiles and not for tears. 

Is eloquence? — Her spell is thine that reaches 
The heart, and makes the wisest head its sport ; 

And there's one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches, 
The secret of their mastery — they are short. 

The monarch mind, the mystery of commanding. 

The birth-hour gift, the art Napoleon, 
Of winning, fettering, moulding, w^ielding, banding 

The hearts of millions till they move as one : 

Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have crowded 

The road to death as to a festival ; 
And minstrels, at their sepulchres, have shrouded 

With banner-folds of glory the dark pall. 

Who will believe ? Not I — for in deceiving 
Lies the dear charm of life's delightful dream ; 

I cannot spare the luxury of believing 

That all things beautiful are what they seem ; 



54 REDJACKET. 

"Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing 
Would, like the Patriarch's, sooth a dying hour, 

With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing. 
As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlit bower ; 

With look, like patient Job's, eschewing evil ; 

With motions graceful as a bird's in air ; 
Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil 

That e'er clenched fingers in a captive's hair ! 

That in thy breast there springs a poison fountain, 
Deadlier than that where bathes the Upas-tree ; 

And in thy wrath, a nursing cat-o'-mountain 

Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee ! 

And underneath that face, like summer ocean's, 
Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear, 

Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions, 
Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow — all save fear. 

Love — for thy land, as if she were thy daughter. 
Her pipe in peace, her tomahawk in wars ; 

Hatred — of missionaries and cold water ; 
Pride — in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars ; 



REDJACKET. 5j 



Hope — that thy wrongs may be, by the Great Spirit, 
Remembered and revenged when thou art gone ; 

Sorrow — that none are left thee to inherit 

Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne ! 



LOVE. 



* * * * The imperial votress passed on 
In maiden meditation, fancy free. 

Midsummer Niglifs Dream, 

Shall I never see a bachelor of threescore again ? 

Benedict, in Much Ado about Notldng. 



I. 

When the tree of Love is budding first, 

Ere yet its leaves are green, 
Ere yet, by shower and sunbeam nursed 

Its infant life has been ; 
The wild bee's slightest touch might wring 

The buds from off the tree, 
As the gentle dip of the swallow's wing 

Breaks the bubbles on the sea. 



LOVE. 



57 



II. 

But when its open leaves have found 

A home in the free air, 
Pluck them, and there remains a wound 

That ever rankles there. 
The blight of hope and happiness 

Is felt when fond ones part, 
And the bitter tear that follows is 

The life-blood of the heart. 



III. 

When the flame of love is kindled first, 
'Tis the fire-fly's light at even, 

'Tis dim as the wandering stars that burst 
In the blue of the summer heaven. 

A breath can bid it burn no more, 
Or if. at times, its beams 

Come on the memory, they pass o'er 

Like shadows in our dreams. 
3* 



58 LOVE. 



IV. 



But when that flame has blazed into 

A being and a power, 
And smiled in scorn upon the dew 

That fell in its first warm hour, 
'Tis the flame that curls round the martyr's head. 

Whose task is to destroy ; 
'Tis the lamp on the altars of the dead. 

Whose light but darkens joy. 



V. 

Then crush, even in their hour of birth, 

The infant buds of Love, 
And tread his glowing fire to earth. 

Ere 'tis dark in clouds above ; 
Cherish no more a cypress-tree 

To shade thy future years, 
Nor nurse a heart-flame that may be 

Quenched only with thy tears. 



A SKETCH. 

Her Leghorn hat was of the bright gold tuit 

The setting sunbeams give to autumn clouds ; 

The riband that encircled it as blue 

As spots of sky upon a moonless night, 

When stars are keeping revelry in heaven ; 

A single ringlet of her clustering hair 

Fell gracefully beneath her hat, in curls 

As dark as down upon the raven's wing ; 

The kerchief, partly o'er her shoulders flung, 

And partly waving in the wind, was woven 

Of every color the first rainbow wore, 

When it came smiling in its hues of beauty, 

A promise from on high to a lost world. 

Her robe seemed of the snow just fallen to earth. 

Pure from its home in the far winter clouds, 

As white, as stainless ; and around her waist 



60 ASKETCH. 

(You might have spanned it with your thumb and 

finger), 
A girdle of the hue of Indian pearls 
Was twined, resembling the faint line of water 
That follows the swift bark o'er quiet seas. 
Her face I saw not : but her shape, her form, 
Was one of those with which creating bards 
People a world of their own fashioning, 
Forms for the heart to love and cherish ever, 
The visiting angels of our twilight dreams. 
Her foot was loveliest of remembered things, 
Small as a fairy's on a moon-lit leaf 
Listening the wind-harp's song, and watching by 
The wild-thyme pillow of her sleeping queen. 
When proud Titania shuns her Oberon. 
But 'twas that foot which broke the spell — alas ! 
Its stocking had a deep, deep tinge of blue — 
I turned away in sadness, and passed on. 



DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 



***** The only bliss 
Of Paradise that has survived the fall. 

COWPEB. 



I. 

" Beside the nuptial curtain bright," 

The Bard of Eden sings, 
" Young Love his constant lamp will light. 

And wave his purple wings." 
But rain-drops from the clouds of care 

May bid that lamp be dim, 
And the boy Love will pout and swear 

'Tis then no place for him. 



62 DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 



II. 



So mused the lovely Mi^s. Dash ; 

'Tis wrong to mention names ; 
When for her surly husband's cash 

She urged in vain her claims. 
" I want a little money, dear, 

For Vandervoort and Flandin, 
Their bill, which now has run a year. 

To-morrow mean to hand in." 



III. 

" More ?" cried the husband, half asleep, 

" You'll drive me to despair ;" 
The lady was too proud to weep, 

And too polite to swear. 
She bit her lip for very spite, 

He felt a storm was brewing. 
And dreamed of nothing else all night. 

But brokers, banks, and ruin. 



DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 63 



IV. 



He thought her pretty once, but dreams 

Have sure a wondrous power, 
For to his eye the lady seems 

Quite altered since that hour ; 
And Love, who on their bridal eve, 

Plad promised long to stay. 
Forgot his promise, took French leave. 

And bore his lamp away. 



MAGDALEN.' 

I. 

A SWORD, whose blade has ne'er been wet 

With blood, except of freedom's foes ; 
That hope which, though its sun be set, 

Still with a starlight beauty glows ; 
A heart that worshipp'd in Romance 

The Spirit of the buried Time, 
And dreams of knight, and steed, and lance, 

And ladye-love, and minstrel-rhyme ; 
These had been, and I deemed would be 
'^y Py^ whate'er my destiny. 



MAGDALEN. 65 



II. 

Born in a camp, its watch-fires bright 

Alone illumed my cradle-bed ; 
And I had borne with wild delight 

My banner where Bolivar led, 
Ere manhood's hue was on my cheek, 

Or manhood's pride was on my brow. 
Its foes are furled — the war-bird's beak 

Is thirsty on the Andes now ; 
I longed, like her, for other skies 
Clouded by Glory's sacrifice. 

III. 

In Greece, the brave heart's Holy Land, 

Its soldier-song the bugle sings ; 
And I had buckled on my brand. 

And waited but the sea-wind's wings. 
To bear me where, or lost or won 

Her battle, in its frown or smile. 
Men live with those of Marathon, 

Or die with those of Scio's isle ; 
And find in Valor's tent or tomb, 
In life or death, a glorious home. 



66 MAGDALEN. 

IV. 

I could have left but yesterday 

The scene of my boy-years behmd, 
And floated on my careless way 

Wherever willed the breathhig wind. 
I could have bade adieu to aught 

I've sought, or met, or welcomed here, 
Without an hour of shaded thought, 

A sigh, a murmur, or a tear. 
Such was I yesterday — but then 
I had not known thee, Magdalen. 

V. 

To-day there is a change within me. 

There is a weight upon my brow. 
And Fame, whose whispers once could win me 

From all I loved, is powerless now. 
There ever is a form, a face 

Of maiden beauty in my dreams. 
Speeding before me, like the race 

To ocean of the mountain streams — 
With dancing hair, and laughing eyes, 
That seem to mock me as it flies. 



MAGDALEN. 67 

VI. 

My sword — it slumbers in its sheath ; 

My hopes — their starry light is gone ; 
My heart — the fabled clock of death 

Beats with the same low, lingering tone : 
And this, the land of Magdalen, 

Seems now the only spot on earth 
Where skies are blue and flowers are green ; 

And here I'd build my household hearth. 
And breath my song of joy, and twine 
A lovely being's name with mine. 

VII. 

In vain ! in vain ! the sail is spread ; 

To sea ! to sea ! my task is there ; 
But when amongj the unmourned dead 

They lay me, and the ocean air 
Brings tidhigs of my day of doom, 

Mayst thou be then, as now thou art, 
The load-star of a happy home ; 

In smile and voice, in eye and heart 
The same as thou hast ever been. 
The loved, the lovely Magdalen. 



FROM THE ITALIAN. 

Eyes with the same blue witchery as those 

Of Psyche, which caught Love in his own wiles ; 

Lips of the breath and hue of the red rose, 

That move but with kind words and sweetest smiles ; 

A power of motion and of look, whose art 

Throws, silently, around the wildest heart 

The net it would not break ; a form which vies 

With that the Grecian imaged in his mind. 

And gazed upon in dreams, and sighed to find 

His breathing marble could not realize. 

Know ye this picture 1 There is one alone 

Can call its pencilled lineaments her own. 

She whom, at morning, when the summer air 

Wanders, delighted, o'er her face of flowers, 

And lingers in the ringlets of her hair, 

We deem the Hebe of Jove's banquet hours ; 



FROM THE ITALIAN. 69 

She ^vho, at evening, when her fingers press 
The harp, and wake its harmonies divine, 
Seems sweetest-voiced and loveliest of the Nine, 
The minstrel of the bowers of happiness, 
She whom the Graces nurtured — at her birth. 
The sea-born Goddess and the Huntress maid, 
Beings whose beauty is not of the earth. 
Came from their myrtle home and forest shade, 
Blending immortal joy with mortal mirth : 
And Dian said, " Fair sister, be she mine 
In her heart's purity, in beauty thine." 
The smiling infant listened and obeyed. 



TRANSLATION 

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE. 

Again ye come, again ye throng around me, 

Dim, shadowy beings of my boyhood's dream ! 

Still shall I bless, as then, your spell that bound me 1 
Still bend to mists and vapors as ye seem 1 

Nearer ye come : I yield me as ye found me 
In youth your worshipper ; and as the stream 

Of air that folds you in its magic wreaths, 

Flows by my lips, youth's joy my bosom breathes. 

Lost forms and loved ones ye are with you bringing, 

And dearest images of happier days, 
First-love and friendship in your path upspringing, 

Like old tradition's half-remembered lays, 



TRANSLATION. 71 

And long-slept sorrows waked, whose dirge-like singing 

Recalls my life's strange labyrinthine maze, 
And names the heart-mourned many a stern doom, 
Ere their year's summer, summoned to the tomb. 

They hear not these my last songs, they whose greeting 
Gladdened my first; my spring-time friends have gone, 

And gone, fast journeying from that place of meeting, 
The echoes of their welcome, one by one. 

Though stranger crowds, my listeners since, are beating 
Time to my music, their applauding tone 

More grieves than glads me, while the tried and true, 

If yet on earth, are wandering far and few. 

A longing long unfelt, a deep-drawn sighing 
For the far Spirit-World o'erpowers me now ; 

My song's faint voice sinks fainter, like the dying 
Tones of the wind-harp swinging from the bough, 

And my changed heart throbs warm, no more denying 
Tears to my eyes, or sadness to my brow : 

The near afar off seems, the d'stant nigh, 

The now a dreani, the past reality. 



WOMAN. 

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF AN UNKNOWN LADY. 

Lady, although we have not met, 

And may not meet, beneath the sky ; 

And whether thine are eyes of jet, 

Gray, or dark blue, or violet. 
Or hazel — heaven knows, not I ; 

Whether around thy cheek of rose 

A maiden's glowing locks are curled 
And to some thousand kneeling beaux, 
Thy frown is cold as winter's snows. 
Thy smile is worth a world ; 



WOMAN. 73 

Or whether, past youth's joyous strife, 

The calm of thought is on thy brow, 
And thou art in thy noon of life. 
Loving and loved, a happy wife, 

And happier mother now, 

I know not : but, whate'er thou art, 
Whoe'er thou art, were mine the spell, 

To call Fate's joys or blunt his dart. 

There should not be one hand or heart 
But served or wished thee well. 

For thou art Woman — with that word 
Life's dearest hopes and memories come, 

Truth, Beauty, Love — in. her adored. 

And earth's lost Paradise restored 
In the green bower of home. 

What is man's love ? His vows are broke, 

Even while his parting kiss is warm ; 
But woman's love all change will mock. 
And, like the ivy round the oak. 

Cling closest in the storm. 



74 WOMAN. 

And well the Poet at her shrine 

May bend, and worship while he woos ; 

To him she is a thing divine, 

The inspiration of his line, 
His loved one and his Muse. 

If to his song the echo rings 

Of Fame — 'tis woman's voice he hears ; 
If ever from his lyre's proud strings 
Flow sounds like rush of angel wings, 
'Tis that she listens while he sings. 

With blended smiles and tears : 

Smiles — tears — whose blessed and blessing power, 
Like sun and dew o'er summer's tree, 

Alone keeps green through Time's long hour. 

That frailer thing than leaf or flower, 
A Poet's immortality. 

1824. 



A POET'S DAUGHTER. 

FOR THE ALBUM OF insS * * *, AT THE REQUEST OF HER FATHER. 

" A Lady asks the Minstrel's rhyme." 
A Lady asks ? There was a time 
When, musical as play-bell's chime 

To wearied boy, 
That sound would summon dreams sublime 
Of pride and joy. 

But now the spell hath lost its sway, 
Life's first-born fancies first decay. 
Gone are the plumes and pennons gay 

Of young Romance ; 
There linger but her ruins gray, 

And broken lance. 



76 A poet's daughter. 



'Tis a new world — no more to maid, 
Warrior, or bard, is homage paid ; 
The bay-tree's, laurel's, myrtle's shade, 

Men's thoughts resign ; 
Heaven placed us here to vote and trade, 

Twin tasks divine ! 



" 'Tis youth, 'tis beauty asks ; the green 
And growing leaves of seventeen 
Are round her ; and, half hid, half seen, 

A violet flower. 
Nursed by the virtues she hath been 
From childhood's hour." 



Blind passion's picture — yet for this 
We woo the life-long bridal kiss. 
And blend our every hope of bliss 

With hers we love ; 
Unmindful of the serpent's hiss 

In Eden's grove. 



A poet's DAUGHTER. 77 

Beauty — the fading rainbow's pride, 
Youth — 'twas the charm of her who died 
At dawn, and by her coffin's side 

A grandsire stands, 
Age-strengthened, like the oak storm-tried 

Of mountain lands. 

Youth's coffin — hush the tale it tells ! 
Be silent, memory's funeral bells ! 
Lone in one heart, her home, it dwells 

Untold till death. 
And where the grave-mound greenly swells 

O'er buried faith. 



" But what if hers are rank and power, 
Armies her train, a throne her bower, 
A kingdom's gold her marriage dower, 

Broad seas and lands ? 
"What if from bannered hall and tower 

A queen commands?" 



78 A POET 'S DAUGHTER. 

A queen ? Earth's regal moons have set. 

Where perished Marie Antoinette 1 

Where's Bordeaux's mother? Where the jet- 
Black Haytian dame 1 

And Lusitania's coronet? 
And Angouleme ? 

Empires to-day are upside down, 
The castle kneels before the town, 
The monarch fears a printer's frown, 

A brickbat's range ; 
Give me, in preference to a crown, 

Five shillings change. 

" But her who asks, though first among 
The good, the beautiful, the young. 
The birthright of a spell more strong 

Than these hath brought her ; 
She is your kinswoman in song, 

A Poet's daughter." 



A poet's DAUGHTER. 70 

A Poet's daughter 1 Could I claim 
The consanguinity of fame, 
Vehis of my intellectual frame ! 

Your blood would glow 
Proudly to sing that gentlest name 

Of aught below. 



A Poet's daughter — dearer word 
Lip hath not spoke nor listener heard, 
Fit theme for song of bee and bird 

From morn till even, 
And wind-harp by the breathing stirred 

Of star-lit heaven. 

My spirit's wings are weak, the fire 

Poetic comes but to expire. 

Her name needs not my humble lyre 

To bid it live ; 
She hath already from her sire 

All bard can give. 1831. 



CONNECTICUT. 



FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. 



" The woods in wliich we had dwelt pleasantly rustled their green 
leaves in the song, and our streams were there with the sound of all 
their waters." Montkosk. 



L 



still her gray rocks tower above the sea 



That crouches at their feet, a conquered wave ; 
'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree, 

Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave ; 
"Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands are bold and free, 

And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave ; 
And where none kneel, save when to heaven they pray, 
Nor even then, unless in their own way. 



CONNECTICUT. 81 



II. 



Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong, 
A " fierce democracie," where all are true 

To what themselves have voted — right or wrong- 
And to their laws denominated blue ; 

(If red, they might to Draco's code belong ;) 
A vestal state, which power could not subdue, 

Nor promise win — like her own eagle's nest, 

Sacred — the San Marino of the West. 



III. 

A justice of the peace, for the time being, 

They bow to, but may turn him out next year; 

They reverence their priest, but disagreeing 
In price or creed, dismiss him without fear ; 

They have a natural talent for foreseeing 

And knowing all things ; and should Park appear 

From his long tour in Afiica, to show 

The Niger's source, they'd meet him with — we know. 

4* 



82 CONNECTICUT. 



IV. 



They love their land, because it is their own, 
And scorn to give aught other reason why ; 

Would shake hands with a king upon his throne, 
And think it kindness to his majesty ; 

A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none. 
Such are they nurtured, such they live and die : 

All — but a few apostates, who are meddling 

With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling ; 



V. 

Or wandering through the southern countries, teaching 
The ABC from Webster's spelling-book ; 

Gallant and godly, making love and preaching. 
And gaining by what they call " hook and crook," 

And what the moralists call over-reaching, 
A decent living. The Virginians look 

Upon them with as favorable eyes 

As Gabriel on the devil in paradise. 



CONNECTICUT. 83 



VI. 



But these are but their outcasts. View them near 
At home, where all their worth and pride is placed ; 

And there their hospitable fires burn clear, 

And there the lowliest farmhouse hearth is graced 

With manly hearts, in piety sincere. 

Faithful in love, in honor stern and chaste. 

In friendship warm and true, in danger brave, 

Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave. 



VII. 

And minds have there been nurtured, whose control 

Is felt even in their nation's destiny ; 
Men who swayed senates with a statesman's soul, 

And looked on armies with a leader's eye ; 
Names that adorn and dignify the scroll, 

Whose leaves contain their country's history, 
And tales of love and war — listen to one 
Of the Green-Mountaineer — the Stark of Bennington. 



84 CONNECTICUT. 

VIII. 

When on that field his band the Hessians fought, 
Briefly he spoke before the fight began : 

" Soldiers ! those German gentlemen are bought 
For four pounds eight and sevenpence per man, 

By England's king ; a bargain, as is thought. 

Are we worth more ? Let's prove it now we can ; 

For we must beat them, boys, ere set of sun, 

Or Mary Stark's a Widow." It was done. 



IX. 

Hers are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's spring. 
Nor the long summer of Cathay an vales. 

The vines, the flowers, the air, the skies, that fling 
Such wild enchantment o'er Boccaccio's tales 

Of Florence and the Arno ; yet the wing 
Of life's best angel. Health, is on her gales 

Through sun and snow ; and in the autumn time 

Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime. 



CONNECTICUT. 85 

X. 

Her clear, warm heaven at noon — the mist that shrouds 
Her twilight hills — her cool and starry eves, 

The glorious splendor of her sunset clouds, 
The rainbow beauty of her forest leaves, 

Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds. 
Where'er his web of song her poet weaves j 

And his mind's brightest vision but displays 

The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days. 



XL 

And when you dream of woman, and her love ; 

Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle power ; 
The maiden listening in the moonlight grove. 

The mother smiling in her infant's bower* 
Forms, features, worshipped while we breathe or move, 

Be by some spirit of your dreaming hour 
Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air 
To the green land I sing, then wake, you'll find them there. 



MUSIC. 

TO A BOY OF FOUR YEARS OLD, ON HEARING HIM PLAY ON THE HARP. 

Sweet boy ! "before thy lips can learn 
In speech thy wishes to make known, 

Are " thoughts that breathe and words that burn" 
Heard in thy music's tone. 

Were Genius tasked to prove the might, 

The magic of her hidden spell, 
She well might name thee with delight 

As her own miracle. 

Who that hath heard, from summer trees, 
The sweet wild song of summer birds, 

When morning to the far-off breeze 
Whispers her bidding words ; 



MUSIC. 

Or listened to the bird of night, 
The minstrel of the starlight hours, 

Companion of the firefly's flight, 
Cool dews, and closed flowers ; 

But deemed that spirits of the air 

Had left their native homes in heaven, 

And that the music warbled there 
To earth a while was given? 

For with that music came the thought 
That life's young purity was theirs, 

And love, all artless and untaught. 
Breathed in their woodland airs. 

And when, sweet boy ! thy baby fingers 
Wake sounds of heaven's own harmony, 

How welcome is the thought that lingers 
Upon thy lyre and thee ! 

It calls up visions of past days. 
When life was infancy and song 

To us, and old remembered lays. 
Unheard, unheeded long ; 



87 



88 MUSIC. 

Revive in joy or grief within us, 

Like lost friends wakened from their sleep, 
With all their early power to win us 

Alike to smile or weep. 

And when we gaze upon that face, 
Blooming in innocence and truth. 

And mark its dimpled artlessness. 
Its beauty and its youth ; 

We think of better worlds than this, 

Of other beings pure as thou. 
Who breathe, on winds of Paradise, 

Music as thine is now. 

And know the only emblem meet 
Of that pure Faith the heart adores. 

To be a child like thee, whose feet 
Are strangers on Life's shores. 



ON THE DEATH OF 

LIEUT. WILLIAM HOWARD ALLEN,' 

OF THE AMERICAN NAVY. 

He hath been mourned as brave men mourn the brave, 

And wept as nations weep their cherished dead, 

With bitter, but proud tears, and o'er his head 

The eternal flowers whose root is in the grave. 

The flowers of Fame, are beautiful and green ; 

And by his grave's side pilgrim feet have been, 

And blessings, pure as men to martyrs give. 

Have there been breathed by those he died to save. 

— Pride of his country's banded chivalry, 

His fame their hope, his name their battle cry ; 

He lived as mothers wish their sons to live, 

He died as fathers wish their sons to die. 



90 ON THE DEATH OF LIEUT. ALLEN. 

If on the grief-worn cheek the hues of bliss, 
Which fade when all we love is in the tomb, 
Could ever know on earth a second bloom, 
The memory of a gallant death like his 
Would call them into being; but the few. 
Who as their friend, their brother, or their son. 
His kind warm heart and gentle spirit knew. 
Had long lived, hoped, and feared for him alone ; 
His voice their morning music, and his eye 
The only starlight of their evening sky. 
Till even the sun of happiness seemed dim. 
And life's best joys were sorrows but with him ; 
And when, the burning bullet in his breast, 
He dropped, like summer fruit from off the bough. 
There was one heart that knew and loved him best- 
It was a mother's — and is broken now. 



TANNY. 



" A fairy vision 
Of some gay creatures of the element, 
That in tlie colors of the rainbow live, 
And play in the plighted clouds." 

Milton. 



FANNY. 

I. 

Fanny was younger once than she is now, 
And prettier of course : I do not mean 

To say that there are wrinkles on her brow ; 
Yet, to be candid, she is past eighteen — 

Perhaps past twenty — but the girl is shy 

About her age, and Heaven forbid that I 

II. 

Should get myself in trouble by revealing 
A secret of this sort ; I have too long 

Loved pretty women with a poet's feeling, 
And when a boy, in day dream and in song. 

Have knelt me down and worshipped them : alas ! 

They never thanked me for 't — but let that pass. 



94 FANNY. 

III. 

I've felt full many a heart-ache in my day, 
At the mere rustlmg of a muslin gown, 

And caught some dreadful colds, I blush to say. 
While shivering in the shade of beauty's frown. 

They say her smiles are sunbeams — it may be — 

But never a sunbeam would she throw on me. 

IV. 

But Fanny's is an eye that you may gaze on 
For half an hour, without the slightest harm ; 

E'en when she wore her smiling summer face on 
There was but little danger, and the charm 

That youth and wealth once gave, has bade farewell. 

Hers is a sad, sad tale — 'tis mine its woes to tell. 

V. 

Her father kept, some fifteen years ago, 
A retail dry-good shop in Chatham-street, 

And nursed his little earnings, sure though slow, 
Till, having mustered wherewithal to meet 

The gaze of the great world, he breathed the air 

Of Pearl-street — and "set up" in Hanover-square. 



F A N N T . 95 

VI. 

Money is power, 'tis said — I never tried ; 

I'm but a poet — and bank-notes to me 
Are curiosities, as closely eyed, 

Whene'er 1 get them, as a stone would be, 
Tossed from the moon on Doctor Mitchill's table, 
Or classic brickbat from the tower of Babel. 

VII. 

But he I sing of well has known and felt 

That money hath a power and a dominion ; " 

For when in Chatham-street the good man dwelt, 
No one would give a sous for his opinion. 

And though his neighbors were extremely civil, 

Yet, on the whole, they thought him — a poor devil, 

vm. 

A decent kind of person ; one whose head 

V^as not of brains particularly full ; 
It was not known that he had ever said 

Any thing worth repeating — 'twas a dull 
Good, honest man — what Paulding's muse would call 
A " cabbage head" — ^but he excelled them all 



96 FANNY. 

IX. 

In that most noble of the sciences, 

The art of making money ; and he found 

The zeal for quizzing him grew less and less, 
As he grew richer ; till upon the ground 

Of Pearl-street, treading proudly in the might 

And majesty of wealth, a sudden light 

X. 

Flashed like the midnight lightning on the eyes 
Of all who knew him ; brilliant traits of mind. 

And genius, clear, and countless as the dies 
Upon the peacock's plumage ; taste refined. 

Wisdom and wit, were his — perhaps much more. 

'Twas strange they had not found it out before. 

XI. 

In this quick transformation, it is true 

That cash had no small share ; but there were still 
Some other causes, which then gave a new 

Impulse to head and heart, and joined to fill 
His brain with knowledge ; for there first he met 
The editor of the New-York Gazette, 



* 



FANNY. 97 

' XII. 

The sapient Mr. Lang. The world of him 
Knows much, yet not one half so much as he 

Knows of the world. Up to its very brirn 
The goblet of his mind is sparkling free 

With lore and learning. Had proud Sheba's queen, 

In all her bloom and beauty, but have seen 

XIII. 

This modern Solomon, the Israelite, 

Earth's monarch as he was, had never won her. 
He would have hanged himself for very spite. 

And she, blessed woman, might have had the honor 
Of some neat " paragraphs" — worth all the lays 
That Judah's minstrel warbled in her praise. 

XIV. 

Her star arose too soon ; but that which swayed 
Th' ascendant at our merchant's natal hour 

Was bright with better destiny — its aid 
Led him to pluck within the classic bower 

Of bulletins, the blossoms of tiue knowledge : 

And Lang supplied the loss of school and college. 



98 FANNY. 

XV. 

For there he learned the news some minutes sooner 
Than others could ; and to distinguish well 

The different signals, whether ship or schooner, 
Hoisted at Staten Island ; and to tell 

The change of wind, and of his neighbor's fortunes, 

And, best of all — he there learned self-importance. 

XVI. 

Nor were these all the advantages derived 
From change of scene ; for near his domicil 

He of the pair of polished lamps then lived. 
And in my hero's promenades, at will. 

Could he behold them burning — and their flame 

Kindled within his breast the love of fame, 

XVII. 

And politics, and country ; the pure glow 
Of patriot ardor, and the consciousness 

That talents such as his might well bestow 
A lustre on the city ; she would bless 

His name ; and that some service should be done her, 

He pledged " life, fortune, and his sacred honor." 



FANNY. 99 

XVIII. 

And when the sounds of music and of mirth, 

Bursting from Fashion's groups assembled there, 

Were heard, as round their lone plebeian hearth 
Fanny and he were seated — he would dare 

To whisper fondly that the time might come 

When he and his could give as brilliant routs at home. 

XIX. 

And oft w^ould Fanny near that mansion linger, 
When the cold winter moon w^as high in heaven, 

And trace out, by the aid of Fancy's finger, 
Cards for some future party, to be given 

When she, in turn, should be a belle, and they 

Had lived their little hour, and passed away. 

XX. 

There are some happy moments in this lone 
And desolate world of ours, that well repay 

The toil of struggling through it, and atone 
For many a long, sad night and weary day. 

They come upon the mind like some wild air 

Of distant music, when we know not where. 



100 FANNY. 

XXI. 

Or whence, the sounds are brought from, and their power, 
Though brief, is boundless. That far, future home, 

Oft dreamed of, beckons near — its rose-wreathed bower, 
And cloudless skies before us : we become 

Changed on the instant — all gold leaf and gilding : 

This is, in vulgar phrase, called " castle building." 

XXII. 

^But these, like sunset clouds, fade soon j 'tis vain 

To bid them linger longer, or to ask 
On what day they intend to call again ; 

And, surely, 'twere a philosophic task, 
Worthy a Mitchill, in his hours of leisure, 
To find some means to summon them at pleasure. 

XXIII. 

There certainly are powers of doing this, 

In some degree at least — for instance, drinking. 

Champagne will bathe the heart a while in bliss, 
And keep the head a little time from thinking 

Of cares or creditors — the best w^ine in town 

You'll get from Lynch — the cash must be paid down. 



FANNY. 101 

XXIV. 

But if you are a bachelor, like me, 

And spurn all chains, even though made of roses, 
I'd recommend segars — there is a free 

And happy spirit, that, unseen, reposes 
On the dim shadowy clouds that hover o'er you, 
When smoking quietly with a warm fire before you. 

XXV. 

Dear to the exile is his native land, 

In memory's twilight beauty seen afar : 
Dear to the broker is a note of hand. 

Collaterally secured — the polar star 
Is dear at midnight to the sailor's eyes. 
And dear are Bristed's volumes at " half price ;" 

XXVI. 

But dearer far to me each fairy minute 
Spent in that fond forgetfulness of grief; 

There is an airy web of magic in it, 
As in Othello's pocket-handkerchief. 

Veiling the wrinkles on the brow of sorrow. 

The gathering gloom to-day, the thunder-cloud to-morrow. 



102 FANNY. 

XXVII. 

And these are innocent thoughts — a man may sit 
Upon a bright throne of his own creation ; 

Untortured by the ghastly sprites that flit 
Around the many, whose exalted station 

Has been attained by means 'twere pain to hint on, 

Just for the rhyme's sake — instance Mr. Clinton. 

XXVIII. 

He struggled hard, but not in vain, and breathes 
The mountain air at last ; but there are others 

Who strove, like him, to win the glittering wreaths 
Of power, his early partisans and brothers. 

That linger yet in dust from whence they sprung, 

Unhonored and unpaid, though, luckily, unhung. 

XXTX. 

'Twas theirs to fill with gas the huge balloon 
Of party ; and they hoped, when it arose, 

To soar like eagles in the blaze of noon. 

Above the gaping crowd of friends and foes. 

Alas ! like Guille's car, it soared without them. 

And left them with a mob to jeer and flout them. 



FANNY. 1 03 

XXX. 

Though Fanny's moonlight dreams were sweet as those 
I've dwelt so long upon — they were more stable ; 

Hers were not " castles in the air " that rose 
Based upon nothing ; for her sire was able, 

As well she knew, to " buy out " the one half 

Of Fashion's glittering train, that nightly quaff 

XXXI. 

Wine, wit, and wisdom, at a midnight rout, 
From dandy coachmen, whose " exquisite" grin 

And "ruffian" lounge flash brilliantly without, 
Down to their brother dandies ranged within. 

Gay as the Brussels carpeting they tread on, 

And sapient as the oysters they are fed on. 

XXXII. 

And Rumor (she's a famous liar, yet 

'Tis wonderful how easy we believe her) 
Had whispered he was rich, and all he met 

In Wall-street, nodded, smiled, and " tipped the beaver ;" 
All, — from Mr. Gelston, the collector, 
Down to the broker, and the bank director. 



104 FANNY. 

XXXIII. 

A few brief years passed over, and his rank 
Among the worthies of that street was fixed ; 

He had become director of a bank, 
And six insurance offices, and mixed 

Familiarly, as one among his peers, 

"With grocers, dry -good merchants, auctioneers, 

XXXIV. 

Brokers of all grades — stock and pawn — and Jews 
Of all religions, who at noonday form, 

On 'Change, that brotherhood the moral muse 
Delights in, where the heart is pure and warm, 

And each exerts his intellectual force 

To cheat his neighbor — legally, of course. 

XXXV. 

And there he shone a planetary star, 

Circled around by lesser orbs, whose beams 

Trom his were borrowed. The simile is not far 
From truth — for many bosom friends, it seems, 

Did borrow of him, and sometimes forget 

To pay — indeed, they have not paid him yet. 



FANNY. 105 

XXXVI. 

But these he deemed as trifles, when each mouth 
Was open in his praise, and plaudits rose 

Upon his willing ear, " like the sweet south 
Upon a bank of violets," from those 

Who knew his talents, virtues, and so forth ; 

That is — knew how much money he was worth. 

XXXVIT. 

Alas ! poor human nature ; had he been 

But satisfied with this, his golden days 
Their setting hour of darkness had not seen, 

And he might still (in the mercantile phrase) 
Be living " in good order and condition ;" 
But he was ruined by that jade Ambition, 

XXXVIII. 

" That last infirmity of noble minds," 

Whose spell, like whiskey, your true patriot liquor, 
To politics the lofty hearts inclines 

Of all, from Clinton down to the bill-sticker 
Of a ward-meeting. She came slyly creeping 
To his bedside, where he lay snug and sleeping. 



106 FA.NNY. 

XXXIX. 

Her brow was turbaned with a bucktail wreath, 
A broach of terrapin her bosom wore, 

Tompkins's letter was just seen beneath 
Her arm, and in her hand on high she bore 

A National Advocate — Pell's polite Review 

Lay at her feet — 'twas pommeled black and blue. 

XL. 

She was in fashion's elegant undress. 

Muffled from throat to ankle ; and her hair 

Was all " en papillotes^^'' each auburn tress 

Prettily pinned apart. You well might swear 

She was no beauty ; yet, when " made up," ready 

For visiters, 'twas quite another lady. 

XLI. 

Since that wise pedant, Johnson, was in fashion, 
Manners have changed as well as moons ; and he 

Would fret himself once more into a passion. 
Should he return (which heaven forbid !), and see, 

^ovv strangely from his standard dictionary. 

The meaning of some words is made to vary. 



FANNY. 107 

XLII. 

For instance, an undress at present means 

The wearing a pelisse, a shawl, or so ; 
Or any thing you please, in short, that screens 

The face, and hides the form from top to toe ; 
Of power to brave a quizzing-glass, or storm — 
'Tis worn in summer, when the weather's warm. 

XLIII. 

But a full dress is for a winter's night. 

The most genteel is made of " woven air ;" 
That kind of classic cobweb, soft and light, 

Which Lady Morgan's Ida used to wear. 
And ladies, this aerial manner dressed in, 
Look Eve-like, angel-like, and interesting. 

XLIV. 
But Miss Ambition was, as I was saying, 
" DeshahilUe" — his bedside tripping near. 
And, gently on his nose her fingers laying. 

She roared out Tammany ! in his frighted ear. 
The potent word awoke him from his nap, 
And then she vanished, whispering verbiim sap. 



108 FANNY. 

XLV. 

The last words were beyond his comprehension, 
For he had left off schooling, ere the Greek 

Or Latin classics claimed his mind's attention : 
Besides, he often had been heard to speak 

Contemptuously of all that sort of knowledge. 

Taught so profoundly in Columbia College. 

XLVI. 

We owe the ancients something. You have read 
Their works, no doubt — at least in a translation ; 

Yet there was argument in what he said, 
I scorn equivocation or evasion. 

And own it must, in candor, be confessed, 

They were an ignorant set of men at best. 

XLVII. 

'Twas their misfortune to be born too soon 
By centuries, and in the wrong place too ; 

They never saw a steamboat, or balloon. 
Velocipede, or Quarterly Review ; 

Or wore a pair of Baehr's black satin breeches, 

Or read an Almanac, or Clinton's Speeches. 



FANNY. 109 

XLVIII. 
In short, in every thing we far outshine them, — 

Art, science, taste, and talent ; and a stroll 
Through this enlightened city would refine them 

More than ten years hard study of the whole 
Their genius has produced of rich and rare — 
God bless the Corporation and the Mayor ! 

XLIX. 

In sculpture, we've a grace the Grecian master, 
Blushing, had owned his purest model lacks ; 

We've Mr. Bogart in the best of plaster, 
The Witch of Endor in the best of wax, 

Besides the head of Franklin on the roof 

Of Mr. Lang, both jest and weather proof. 

L. 

And on our City Hall a Justice stands ; 

A neater form was never made of board, 
Holding majestically in her hands 

A pair of steelyards and a wooden sword ; 
And looking down with complaisant civility — 
Emblem of dignity and durability. 



110 FANNY. 

LI. 

In painting, we have Trumbull's proud chef d'oeuvre^ 
Blending in one the funny and the fine : 

His " Independence" will endure forever, 
And so will Mr. Allen's lottery sign ; 

And all that grace the Academy of Arts, 

From Dr. Hosack's face to Bonaparte's. 

LII. 

In architecture, our unrivalled skill 

Cullen's magnesian shop has loudly spoken 

To an admiring world ; and better still 
Is Gautier's fairy palace at Hoboken. 

In music, we've the Euterpian Society, 

And amateurs, a wonderful variety. 

LIII. 

In physic, we have Francis and M'Neven, 

Famed for long heads, short lectures, and long bills ; 

And Quackenboss and others, who from heaven 
Were rained upon us in a shower of pills ; 

They'd beat the deathless Esculapius hollow. 

And make a starveling druggist of Apollo. 



FANNY. Ill 

LIV. 

And who, that ever slumbered at the Forum, 

But owns the first of orators we claim : 
Cicero would have bowed the knee before 'em — 

And for law eloquence, we've Doctor Graham. 
Compared with him, their Justins and Quintilians 
Had dwindled into second rate civilians. 

LV. 

For purity and chastity of style, 

There's Pell's preface, and puffs by Home and Waite. 
For penetration deep, and learned toil, 

And all that stamps an author truly great, 
Have we not Bristed's ponderous tomes ? a treasure 
For any man of patience and of leisure. 

LVI. 

Oxonian Bristed ! many a foolscap page 

He, in his time, hath written, and moreover 

(What few will do in this degenerate age) # 

Hath read his own works, as you may discover 

By counting his quotations from himself — 

You'll find the books on any auction shelf. 



112 FANNY. 

LVII. 

I beg Great Britain's pardon; 'tis not meant 
To claim this Oxford scholar as our own : 

That he was shipped off here to represent 
Her literature among us, is well known ; 

And none could better fill the lofty station 

Of Learning's envoy from the British nation. 

LVIII. 

We fondly hope that he will be respected 
At home, and soon obtain a place or pension. 

We should regret to see him live neglected. 

Like Fearon, Ashe, and others we could mention : 

Who paid us friendly visits to abuse 

Our country, and find food for the reviews. 

LIX. 

But to return. — The Heliconian waters 

Are sparkling in their native fount no more. 

And after years of wandering, the nine daughters 
Of poetry have found upon our shore 

A happier home, and on their sacred shrines 

Glow in immortal ink, the polished lines 



FANNY. 113 

LX. 

Of Woodworth, Doctor Farmer, Moses Scott — 
Names hallowed by their reader's sweetest smile ; 

And who that reads at all has read them not ? 
" That blind old man of Scio's rocky isle," 

Homer, w^as well enough ; but would he ever 

Have written, think ye, the Backwoodsman 1 never. 

LXI. 

Alas ! for Paulding — I regret to see 

In such a stanza one whose giant powers, 

Seen in their native element, will be 

Known to a future age, the pride of ours. 

There is none breathing who can better wield 

The battle-axe of satire. On its field 

LXII. 

The wreath he fought for he has bravely won, 
Lonor ije its laurel screen around his brow ! 

It is too true, I'm somewhat fond of fun 
And jesting ; but for once I'm serious now. 

Why is he sipping weak Castalian dews 1 

The muse has damned him — let him damn the muse. 



114 FANNY. 

LXIIT. 

But to return once more : the ancients fought 

Some tolerable battles. Marathon 
Is still a theme for high and holy thought, 

And many a poet's lay. We linger on 
The page that tells us of the brave and free, 
And reverence thy name, unmatched Thermopylae. 

LXIV. 

And there were spirited troops in other days — 
The Roman legion and the Spartan band. 

And Swaitwout's gallant corps, the Iron Grays — 
Soldiers who met their foemen hand to hand, 

Or swore, at least, to meet them undismayed; 

Yet what were these to General Laight's brigade 

LXV. 

Of veterans ? nursed in that Free School of glory, 
The New- York State Militia. From Bellevue, 

E'en to the Battery flagstaff, the proud story 
Of their manoeuvres at the last review 

Has rang ; and Clinton's " order" told afar 

He never led a better corps to war. 



FANNY. tl5 

LXVI. 

What, Egypt, was thy magic, to the tricks 

Of Mr. Charles, Judge Spencer, or Van Buren "? 

The first with cards, the last in politics, 

A conjuror's fame for years have been securing. 

And who would now the Athenian dramas read 

When he can get " Wall-street," by Mr Mead. 

LXVIT. 

I might say much about our lettered men, 

Those " grave and reverend seigniors," who compose 

Our learned societies — but here my pen 

Stops short ; for they themselves, the rumor goes, 

The exclusive privilege by patent claim. 

Of trumpeting (as the phrase is) their own fame. 

LXVIII. 

And, therefore, I am silent. It remains 
To bless the hour the Corporation took it 

Into their heads to give the rich in brains, 
The worn-out mansion of the poor in pocket, 

Once " the old almshouse," now a school of wisdom, 

Sacred to Scudder's shells and Dr. Griscom. 



116 FANNY. 

LXIX. 

But whither am I wandering 1 The esteem 

I bear " this fair city of the heart," 
To me a dear enthusiastic theme, 

Has forced me, all unconsciously, to part 
Too long from him, the hero of my story. 
Where was he ? — waking from his dream of glory. 

LXX. 

And she, the lady of his dream, had fled, 

And left him somewhat puzzled and confused. 

He understood, however, half she said ; 
And that is quite as much as w^e are used 

To comprehend, or fancy worth repeating, 

In speeches heard at any public meeting. 

LXXI. 

And the next evening found him at the Hall ; 

There he was welcomed by the cordial hand, 
And met the warm and friendly grasp of all 

Who take, like watchmen, there, their nightly stand, 
A ring, as in a boxing match, procuring, 
To bet on Clinton, Tompkins, or Van Buren. 



FANNY, 117 

LXXII. 

'Twas a propitious moment ; for a while 
The waves of party were at rest. Upon 

Each complacent brow was gay good humor's smile : 
And there was much of wit, and jest, and pun, 

And high amid the circle, in great glee, 

Sat Croaker's old acquaintance, John Targee. 

LXXIII. 

His jokes excelled the rest, and oft he sang 

Songs, patriotic, as in duty bound. 
He had a little of the " nasal twang 

Heard at conventicle ;" but yet you found 
In him a dash of purity and brightness, 
That spoke the man of taste and of politeness. 

LXXIV. 

For he had been, it seems, the bosom friend 
Of England's prettiest bard, Anacreon Moore. 

They met, when he, the bard, came here to lend 
His mirth and music to this favorite shore ; 

For, as the proverb saith, " birds of a feather 

Instinctively will flock and fly together." 



118 FANNY. 

LXXV. 

The winds that wave thy cedar boughs are breathing, 
" Lake of the Dismal Swamp !" that poet's name ; 
And the spray -showers their noonday halos wreathing 

Around " Cohoes," are brightened by his fame. 
And bright its sunbeam o'er St. Lawrence smiles, 
Her million lilies, and her thousand isles. 

LXXVI. 

We hear his music in her carmen's lay. 

And where her church-bells "toll the evening chime j" 
Yet when to him the grateful heart would pay 

Its homage, now, and in all coming time. 
Up springs a doubtful question whether we 
Owe it to Tara's minstrel or Targee. 

LXXVII. 

Together oft they wandered — many a spot 
Now consecrated, as the minstrel's theme, 

By words of beauty ne'er to be forgot. 

Their mutual feet have trod ; and when the stream 

Of thought and feeling flowed in mutual speech, 

'Twere vain to tell how much each taught to each. 



FANNY. 

LXXVIII. 

But, from the following song, it would appear 
That he of Erin from the sachem took 

The model of his " Bower of Bendemeer," 
One of the sweetest airs in Lalla Rookh ; 

'Tis to be hoped that in his next edition, 

This, the original, will find admission. 



119 



120 FANNY 



SONG. 



There's a barrel of porter at Tammany Hall 

And the bucktails are swigging it all the night long ; 

In the time of my boyhood 'twas pleasant to call 
Tor a seat and segar, mid the jovial throng. 

That beer and those bucktails I never forget ; 

But oft, when alone, and unnoticed by all, 
I think, is the porter cask foaming there yet ? 

Are the bucktails still swigging at Tammany Hall? 

No ! the porter w^as out long before it was stale, 
But some blossoms on many a nose brightly shone ; 

And the speeches inspired by the fumes of the ale, 
Had the fragrance of porter when porter was gone. 

How much Cozzens will draw of such beer ere he dies, 
Is a question of moment to me and to all ; 

"For still dear to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, 
Is that barrel of porter at Tammany Hall. 



FANNY. 121 



SONG. 



There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, 
And the nightingale sings round it all the night long ; 

In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream 
To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song. 

That bower and its music I never forget ; 

But oft, when alone, in the bloom of the year, 
I think, is the nightingale singing there yet *? 

Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer ? 

No ! the rose.s soon withered that hung o'er the wave. 
But some blossoms were gathered while freshly they 
shone ; 

And a dew was distilled from their flowers, that gave 
All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone. 

Thus memory draws from delight ere it dies. 

An essence that breathes of it many a year ; 

Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, 

Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer. 
6 



122 FANNY. 

LXXIX. 

For many months my hero ne'er neglected 
To take his ramble there, and soon found out, 

In much less time than one could have expected. 
What 'twas they all were quarrelling about. 

He learned the party countersigns by rote, 

And when to clap his hands, and how to vote. 

LXXX. 

He learned that Clinton became Governor 

Somehow by chance, when we were all asleep ; 

That he had neither sense, nor talent, nor 
Any good quality, and would not keep 

His place an hour after the next election — 

So powei'ful was the voice of disaffection. 

LXXXI. 

That he was a mere puppet made to play 

A thousand tricks, while Spencer touched the springs- 
Spencer, the mighty Warwick of his day, 

" That setter up, and puller down of kings," 
Aided by Miller, Pell, and Doctor Graham, 
And other men of equal worth and fame. 



FANNY. 123 

LXXXII. 

And that he'd set the people at defiance, 

By placing knaves and fools in public stations ; 

And that his works in literature and science 
Were but a schoolboy's web of misquotations ; 

And that he'd quoted from the devil even — 

" Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven." 

LXXXIII. 

To these authentic facts each bucktail swore ; 

But Clinton's friends averred, in contradiction, 
They were but fables, told by Mr. Noah, 

Who had a privilege to deal in fiction, 
Because he'd written travels, and a melo- 
Drama ; and was, withal, a pleasant fellow. 

LXXXIV. 

And they declared that Tompkins was no better 
Than he should be ; that he had borrowed money, 

And paid it — not in cash — but with a lettei" ; 

And though some trifling service he had done, he 

Still wanted spirit, energy, and fire ; 

And was disliked by — Mr. M'Intyre. 



124 FANNY. 

LXXXV. 

In short, each one with whom in conversation 
He joined, contrived to give him different views 

Of men and measures ; and the information 
Which he obtained, but aided to confuse 

His brain. At best, 'twas never very clear ; 

And now 'twas turned with politics and beer. 

LXXXVI. 

And he was puffed, and flattered, and caressed 
By all, till he sincerely thought that nature 

Had formed him for an alderman at least — 
Perhaps, a member of the legislature ; 

And that he had the talents, ten times over, 

Of Henry Meigs, or Peter H. Wendover. 

LXXXVII. 

The man was mad, 'tis plain, and merits pity, 
Or he had never dared, in such a tone, 

To speak of two great persons, whom the city, 
With pride and pleasure, points to as her own. 

Men, wise in council, brilliant in debate, 

" The expectancy and rose of the fair state." 



FANNY. . 125 

XXXVIII. 

The one — for a pure style and classic manner, 
Is — Mr. Sachem Mooney far before. 
The other, in his speech about the banner, 

Spell-bound his audience until they swore 
That such a speech was never heard till then, 
And never would be — till he spoke again. 

LXXXIX. 

Though 'twas presumptuous in this friend of ours 
To think of rivalling these, I must allow 

That still the man had talents ; and the powers 
Of his capacious intellect were now 

Improved by foreign travel, and by reading. 

And at the Hall he'd learned, of course, good breeding. 

XC. 

He had read the newspapers with great attention, 
Advertisements and all ; and Riley's book 

Of travels — valued for its rich invention ; 

And Day and Turner's Price Current ; and took 

The Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews ; 

And also Colonel Pell's ; and, to amuse 



126 FANNY. 

XCI. 

His leisure hours with classic tale and story, 
Longworth's Directory, and Mead's Wall-street, 

And Mr. Delaplaine's Repository ; 

And Mitchill's scientific works complete. 

With other standard books of modern days, 

Lay on his table, covered with green baize. 

XCII. 
His travels had extended to Bath races ; 

And Bloomingdale and Bergen he had seen. 
And Harlsem Heights ; and many other places, 

By sea and land, had visited ; and been, 
In a steamboat of the Vice-President's, 
To Staten-Island once — for fifty cents. 

XCIII. 

And he had dined, by special invitation. 
On turtle, with " the party" at Hoboken ; 

And thanked them for his card in an oration. 
Declared to be the shortest ever spoken. 

And he had strolled one day o'er Weehawk hill : 

A day worth all the rest — he recollects it still. 



FANNT. 127 

XCIV. 

Weehawken! In thy mountain scenery yet, 

All we adore of nature in her wild 
And frolic hour of infancy, is met ; 

And never has a summer's morning smiled 
Upon a lovelier scene, than the full eye 
Of the enthusiast revels on — when high 

XCV. 

Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbs 

O'er crags, that proudly tower above the deep, 

And knows that sense of danger which sublimes 
The breathless moment — when his daring step 

Is on the verge of the cliff, and he can hear 

The low dash of the wave with startled ear, 

XCVI. 
Like the death-music of his coming doom. 

And clings to the green turf with desperate force, 
As the heart clings to life ; and when resume 

The currents in his veins their wonted course. 
There lingers a deep feeling — like the moan 
Of wearied ocean, when the storm is gone. 



128 FANNY. 

XCVII. 

In such an hour he turns, and on his view, 

Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before him ; 

Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue 
Of summer's sky in beauty bending o'er him — 

The city bright below ; and far away, 

Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay. 

XCVIII. 

Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement, 
And banners floating in the sunny air ; 

And white sails o'er the calm blue waters bent. 
Green isle, and circling shore, are blended there 

In wild reality. When life is old. 

And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold 

XCIX. 
Its memory of this ; nor lives there one 

Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood's days 
Of happiness were passed beneath that sun. 

That in his manhood's prime can calmly gaze 
Upon that bay, or on that mountain stand, 
Nor feel the prouder of his native land. 



FANNY. 129 

C. 

" This may be poetry, for aught I know," 

Said an old, worthy friend of mine, while leaning 

Over my shoulder as I wrote ; " although 
I can't exactly comprehend its meaning. 

For my part, I have long been a petitioner 

To Mr. John M'Comb, the street-commissioner, 

CI. 

" That he would think of Weehawk, and would lay it 

Handsomely out in avenue and square ; 
Then tax the land, and make its owners pay it 

(As is the usual j)lan pursued elsewhere) ; 
Blow up the rocks, and sell the wood for fuel — 
'Twould save us many a dollar, and a duel." 

CII. 
The devil take you and John M'Comb, said I ; 

Lang, in its praise, has penned one paragraph, 
And promised me another. I defy. 

With such assistance, yours and the world's laugh ; 

And half believe that Paulding, on this theme, 

Might be a poet — strange as it may seem. 

6* 



130 FANNY. 

cm. 

For even our traveller felt, when home returning 
From that day's tour, as on the deck he stood, 

The fire of poetry within him burning ; 
" Albeit unused to the rhyming mood ;" 

And with a pencil on his knee he wrote 

The following flaming lines 



TO THE HORSEBOAT. 



1 

Away — o'er the wave to the home we are seeking. 
Bark of my hope ! ere the evening be gone ; 

There's a wild, wild note in the curlew's shrieking ; 
There's a whisper of death in the wind's low moan. 

2 
Though blue and bright are the heavens above me, 

And the stars are asleep on the quiet sea; 
And hearts I love, and hearts that love me, 

Are beating beside me merrily. 



FANNY. 131 

3 

Yet, far in the west, where the day's faded roses, 
Touched by the moonbeam, are withering fast; 

Where the half-seen spirit of twilight reposes, 
Hymning the dirge of the hours that are past, 

4 

There, where the ocean-wave sparkles at meeting 
(As sunset dreams tell us) the kiss of the sky, 

On his dim, dark cloud is the infant storm sitting. 
And beneath the horizon his lightnings are nigh. 

5 
Another hour — and the death-word is given, 

Another hour — and his lightnings are here ; 
Speed ! speed thee, my bark ; ere the breeze of even 

Is lost in the tempest, our home will be near. 

6 

Then away o'er the wave, while thy pennant is streaming 
In the shadowy light, like a shooting star ; 

Be swift as the thought of the wanderer, dreaming, 
In a stranger land, of his fireside afar. 



132 FANNY. 

7 
And while memory lingers I'll fondly believe thee 

A being with life and its best feelings warm ; 
And freely the wild song of gratitude weave thee, 

Blessed spirit ! that bore me and mine from the storm. 



CIV. 
But where is Fanny 1 She has long been thrown 

Where cheeks and roses wither — in the shade. 
The age of chivalry, you know, is gone ; 

And although, as I once before have said, 
I love a pretty face to adoration, 
Yet, still, I must preserve my reputation, 

CV. 
As a true dandy of the modern schools. 

One hates to be oldfashioned ; it would be 
A violation of the latest rules, 

To treat the sex with too much courtesy. 
'Tis not to worship beauty, as she glows 
In all her diamond lustre, that the beaux 



FANNY. 133 

CVI. 

Of these enlightened days at evening crowd, 
Where fashion welcomes in her rooms of light. 

That " dignified obedience ; that proud 

Submission," which, in times of yore, the knight 

Gave to his " ladye-love," is now a scandal, 

And practised only by your Goth or Vandal. 

CVII. 
To lounge in graceful attitudes — be stared 

Upon, the while, by every fair one's eye, 
And stare one's self, in turn : to be prepared 

To dart upon the trays, as swiftly by 
The dexterous Simon bears them, and to take 
One's share, at least, of coffee, cream, and cake, 

CVIII. 
Is now to be " the ton." The pouting lip. 

And sad, upbraiding eye of the poor girl. 
Who hardly of joy's cup one drop can sip. 

Ere in the wild confusion, and the whirl. 
And tumult of the hour, its bubbles vanish, 
Must now be disregarded. One must banish 



134 FANNY. 

CIX. 

Those antiquated feelings, that belong 
To feudal manners and a barbarous age. 

Time was — when woman " poured her soul" in song, 
That all was hushed around. 'Tis now " the rage" 

To deem a song, like bugle-tones in battle, 

A signal-note, that bids each tongue's artillery rattle. 

ex. 

And, therefore, I have made Miss Fanny wait 
My leisure. She had changed, as you will see, as 

Much as her worthy sire, and made as great 
Proficiency in taste and high ideas. 

The careless smile of other days was gone, 

And every gesture spoke " (fen dira-t' on .^" 

CXI. 

She long had known that in her father's coffers. 

And also to his credit in the banks. 
There was some cash j and therefore all the offers 

Made her, by gentlemen of the middle ranks. 
Of heart and hand, had spurned, as far beneath 
One whose high destiny it was to breathe, 



FANNY. 135 

CXII. 
Ere long, the air of Broadway or Park Place, 

And reign a fairy queen in fairy land ; 
Display in the gay dance her form of grace, 

Or touch with rounded arm and gloveless hand, 
Harp or piano. — Madame Catilani 
Forgot a while, and every eye on Fanny. 

CXIII. 
And in anticipation of that hour, 

Her star of hope — her paradise of thought, 
She'd had as many masters as the power 

Of riches could bestow ; and had been taught 
The thousand nameless graces that adorn 
The daughters of the wealthy and high-born. 

CXIV. 

She had been noticed at some public places 
(The Battery, and the balls of Mr. Whale), 

For hers was one of those attractive faces. 
That when you gaze upon them, never fail 

To bid you look again ; there was a beam, 

A lustre in her eye, that oft would seem 



136 FANNY. 

CXV. 

A little like effrontery ; and yet 

The lady meant no harm ; her only aim 

Was but to be admired by all she met, 

And the free homage of the heart to claim ; 

And if she showed too plainly this intention, 

Others have done the same — 'twas not of her invention. 

CXVI. 

She shone at every concert ; where are bought 
Tickets by all who wish them, for a dollar ; 

She patronised the Theatre, and thought 

That Wallack looked extremely well in Rolla ; 

She fell in love, as all the ladies do. 

With Mr. Simpson — talked as loudly, too, 

CXVII. 

As any beauty of the highest grade. 

To the gay circle in the box beside her ; 

And when the pit — half vexed and half afivaid, 
With looks of smothered indignation eyed lier. 

She calmly met their gaze, and stood before 'em, 

Smiling at vulgar taste and mock decorum. 



FANNY. 137 

CXVIII. 

And though by no means a has bleu, she had 
For literature a most becoming passion ; 

Had skimmed the latest novels, good and bad, 

And read the Croakers, when they were in fashion ; 

And Dr. Chalmers' sermons of a Sunday ; 

And Woodworth's Cabinet, and the new Salmagundi. 

CXIX. 

She was among the first and warmest patrons 

Of Griscom's conversazidnes, where 
In rainbow groups, our bright-eyed maids and matrons, 

On science, bent, assemble ; to prepare 
Themselves for acting well, in life, their part 
As wives and mothers. There she learned by heart 

cxx. 

Words, to the witches in Macbeth unknown. 

Hydraulics, hydrostatics, and pneumatics, 
Dioptrics, optics, katoptrics, carbon, 

Chlorine, and iodine, and aerostatics ; 
Also, — why frogs, for want of air, expire ; 
And how to set the Tappan sea on fire ! 



138 FANNY. 

CXXI. 

Ill all the modern languages she was 

Exceedingly well versed ; and had devoted, 

To their attainment, far more time than has. 
By the best teachers lately, been allotted ; 

Tor she had taken lessons, twice a week, 

For a full month in each ; and she could speak 

CXXII. 

French and Italian, equally as well 

As Chinese, Portuguese, or German ; and, 

What is still more surprising, she could spell 
Most of our longest English words off-hand ; 

Was quite familiar in Low Dutch and Spanish, 

And thought of studying modern Greek and Danish. 

CXXIII. 

She sang divinely : and in " Love's young dream," 
And " Fanny dearest," and " The soldier's bride ;" 

And every song, whose dear delightful theme, 
Is " Love, still love," had oft till midnight tried 

Her finest, loftiest " pigeon-wings" of sound, 

Waking the very watchmen far around. 



FANNY. 139 

CXXIV. 
For her pure taste in dress, I can appeal to 

Madame Bouquet, and Monsieur Pardessus; 
She was, in short, a woman you might kneel to, 

If kneeling were in fashion ; or if you 
Were wearied of your duns and single life, 
And wanted a few thousands and a wife. 

cxxv. 

************* 
************* 



CXXVI. 

" There was a sound of revelry by night ;" 

Broadway was thronged with coaches, and within 
A mansion of the best of brick, the bright 
And eloquent eyes of beauty bade begin 
The dance ; aijd music's tones swelled wild and high. 
And hearts and heels kept tune in tremulous ecstacy. 



140 FANNY. 

CXXVII. 

For many a week, the note of preparation 
Had sounded through all circles far and nea 

And some five hundred cards of invitation 
Bade beau and belle in full costume appear ; 

There was a most magnificent variety, 

All quite select, and of the first society. 

CXXVIII. 
That is to say — the rich and the well-bred, 

The arbiters of fashion and gentility, 
In different grades of splendor, from the head 

Down to the very toe of our nobility : 
Ladies, remarkable for handsome eyes 
Or handsome fortunes — learned men, and wise 

CXXIX. 

Statesmen, and officers of the militia — 
In short, the " first society" — a phrase. 

Which you may understand as best may fit you ; 
Besides the blackest fiddlers of those days, 

Placed like their sire, Timotheus, on high, 

With horsehair fiddle-bows and teeth of ivory. 



FANNY. 141 

CXXX. 

The carpets were rolled up the day before, 

And, with a breath, two rooms became but one, 

Like man and wife — and, on the polished floor, 
Chalk in the artists' plastic hand had done 

All that chalk could do — in young Eden's bowers 

They seemed to tread, and their feet pressed on flowers. 

CXXXI. 

And when the thousand lights of spermaceti 

Streamed like a shower of sunbeams — and free tresses 

Wild as the heads that waved them — and a pretty 
Collection of the latest Paris dresses 

"Wandered about the room like things divine. 

It was, as I was told, extremely fine. 

CXXXII. 

The love of fun, fine faces, and good eating, 

Brought many who were tired of self and home ; 

And some were there in the high hope of meeting 
The lady of their bosom's love — and some 

To study that deep science, how to please, 

And manners in high life, and high-souled courtesies. 



142 FANNY. 

CXXXIII. 

And he, the hero of the night was there, 
In breeches of light drab, and coat of blue. 

Taste was conspicuous in his powdered hair, 
And in his frequent jeux de mots, that drew 

Peals of applauses from the listeners I'ound, 

Who were delighted — as in duty bound. 

CXXXIV. 
'Twas Fanny's father — Fanny near him stood, 

Her power, resistless — and her wish, command ; 
And Hope's young promises were all made good; 

" She reigned a fairy queen in fairy land ;" 
Her dream of infancy a dream no more, 
And then how beautiful the dress she wore ! 

cxxxv. 

Ambition with the sire had kept her word. 

He had the rose, no matter for its thorn, 
And he seemed happy as a summer bird, 

Careering on wet wing to meet the morn. 
Some said there was a cloud upon his brow; 
It might be — but we'll not discuss that now. 



FANNY. 143 

CXXXVI. 

1 left him making rhymes while crossing o'er 

The broad and perilous wave of the North River. 

He bade adieu, when safely on the shore, 
To poetry — and, as he thought, for ever. 

That night his dream (if after deeds make known 

Our plans in sleep) was an enchanting one. 

CXXXVII. 

He woke, in strength, like Samson from his slumber, 
And walked Broadway, enraptured the next day ; 

Purchased a house there — I've forgot the number — 
And signed a mortgage and a bond, for pay. 

Gave, in the slang phrase. Pearl-street the go-by, 

And cut, for several months, St. Tammany. 

CXXXVIII. 

Bond, mortgage, title-deeds, and all completed, 
He bought a coach and half a dozen horses 

(The bill 's at Lawrence's — not yet receipted — 
You'll find the amount upon his list of losses). 

Then filled his rooms with servants, and whatever 

Is necessary for a " genteel liver." 



144 FANNY. 

CXXXIX. 

This last removal fixed him : every stain 

Was blotted from his " household coat," and he 

Now " showed the world he was a gentleman," 
And, what is better, could afford to be j 

His step was loftier than it was of old. 

His laugh less frequent, and his manner told 

CXL. 

What lovers call " unutterable things " — 

That sort of dignity was in his mien 
Which awes the gazer into ice, and brings 

To recollection some great man we've seen. 
The Governor, perchance, whose eye and frown, 
'Twas shrewdly guessed, would knock Judge Skinner down. 

CXLL 

And for " Resources," both of purse and head, 
He was a subject worthy Bristed's pen ; 

Believed devoutly all his flatterers said, 

And deemed himself a Croesus among men ; 

Spread to the liberal air his silken sails. 

And lavished guineas like a Prince of Wales. 



1 

i 



FANNY. 145 

CXLII. 

He mingled now with those within whose veins 
The blood ran pure — the magnates of the land — 

Hailed them as his companions and his friends, 
And lent them money and his note of hand. 

In every institution, whose proud aim 

Is public good alone, he soon became 

CXLIII. 
A man of consequence and notoriety ; 

His name, with the addition of esquire, 
Stood high upon the list of each society. 

Whose zeal and watchfulness the sacred fire 
Of science, agriculture, art, and learning. 
Keep on our country's altars bright and burning. 

CXLIV. 

At Eastburn's Rooms he met, at two each day. 
With men of taste and judgment like his own, 

And played '•' first fiddle " in that orchestra 
Of literary worthies — and the tone 

Of liis mind's music, by the listeners caught. 

Is traced among them still in language and in thought. 



146 FANNY. 

CXLV. 

lie once made the Lyceum a choice present 
' Of muscle shells picked up at Rockaway ; 
And Mitchill gave a classical and pleasant 

Discourse about them in the streets that day, 
Naming the shells, and hard to put in verse 'twas, 
*' Testaceous coverings of bivalve moluscas." 

CXLVI. 
He was a trustee of a Savings Bank, 

And lectured soundly every evil doer, 
Gave dinners daily to wealth, power, and rank, 

And sixpence every Sunday to the poor ; 
He was a wit, in the pun making line — 
Past fifty years of age, and five feet nine. 

CXLVII. 

But as he trod to grandeur's pinnacle. 

With eagle eye and step that never faltered. 

The busy tongue of scandal dared to tell 

That cash was scarce with him, and credit altered ; 

And while he stood the envy of beholders, 

The Bank Directors grinned, and shrugged their shoulders. 



II 



FANNY. 147 

CXLVIII. 
And when these, the Lord Burleighs of the minute, 

Shake their sage heads, and look demure and holy, 
Depend upon it there is something in it ; 

For whether born of wisdom or of folly, 
Suspicion is a being whose fell power 
Blights every thing it touches, fruit and flower. 

CXLIX. 
Some friends (they were his creditors) once hinted 

About retrenchment and a day of doom ; 
He thanked them, as no doubt they kindly meant it. 

And made this speech, when they had left the room : 
" Of all the curses upon mortals sent. 
One's creditors are the most impudent ; 

CL. 

" Now I am one who knows what he is doing, 
And suits exactly to his means his ends ; 

How can a man be in the path to ruin. 

When all the brokers are his bosom friends'? 

Yet, on my hopes, and those of my dear daughter, 

These rascals throw a bucket of cold water ! 



148 FANNY. 

CLI. 

" They'd wrinkle with deep cares the prettiest face, 
Pour gall and wormwood in the sweetest cup, 

Poison the very wells of life — and place, 

Whitechapel needles, with their sharp points up. 

Even in the softest feather bed that e'er 

Was manufactured by upholsterer." 

CLII. 

This said — he journeyed " at his own sweet will," 
Like one of Wordsworth's rivers, calmly on ; 

But yet, at times, Reflection, " in her still 

Small voice," would whisper, something must be done ; 

He asked advice of Fanny, and the maid 

Promptly and duteously lent her aid. 

CLIII. 
She told him, with that readiness of mind 

And quickness of perception which belong 
Exclusively to gentle womankind. 

That to submit to slanderers was wrong, 
And the best plan to silence and admonish them, 
Would be to give " a party " — and astonish them. 



FANNY. 149 

CLIV. 
The hint was taken — and the party given ; 

And Fanny, as I said some pages since, 
Was there in power and loveliness that even, 

And he, her sire, demeaned him like a prince, 

And all was joy — it looked a festival, 

Where pain might smooth his brow, and grief her smiles 

recall. 

CLV. 

But Fortune, like some others of her sex. 
Delights in tantalizing and tormenting ; 

One day we feed upon their smiles — the next 
Is spent in swearing, sorrowing, and repenting. 

(If in the last four lines the author lies, 

He's always ready to apologize.) 

CLVI. 

Eve never walked in Paradise more pure 

Than on that morn when Satan played the devil 

With her and all her race. A love-sick wooer 
Ne'er asked a kinder maiden, or more civil. 

Than Cleopatra was to Antony 

The day she left him on the Ionian sea. 



150 FANNY. 

CLVII. 

The serpent — loveliest in his coiled ring, 

With eye that charms, and beauty that outvies 

The tints of the rainbow — bears upon his sting 
The deadliest venom. Ere the dolphin dies 

Its hues are brightest. Like an infant's breath 

Are tropic winds, before the voice of death 

CLVIII. 

Is heard upon the waters, summoning 

The midnight earthquake from its sleep of years 

To do its task of wo. The clouds that fling 
The lightning, brighten ere the bolt appears ; 

The pantings of the warrior's heart are proud 

Upon that battle morn whose night-dews wet his shroud ; 

CLIX. 
The sun is loveliest as he sinks to rest ; 

The leaves of autumn smile when fading fast ; 
The swan's last song is sweetest — and the best 

Of Meigs's speeches, doubtless, was his last. 
And thus the happiest scene, in these my rhymes, 
Closed with a crash, and ushered in — hard times. 



FANNY. 151 

CLX. 

St. Paul's tolled one — and fifteen minutes after 

Down came, by accident, a chandelier; 
The mansion tottered from the floor to rafter ! 

Up rose the cry of agony and fear ! 
And there was shrieking, screaming, bustling, fluttering, 
Beyond the power of writing or of uttering. 

CLXI. 

The company departed, and neglected 

To say good-by — the father stormed and swore — 
The fiddlers grinned — the daughter looked dejected — 

The flowers had vanished from the polished floor, 
And both betook them to their sleepless beds. 
With hearts and prospects broken, but no heads. 

CLXII. 

The desolate relief of free complahiing 

Came with the morn, and with it came bad weather ; 
The wind was east-northeast, and it was raining 

Throughout that day, which, take it altogether, 
Was one whose memory clings to us through life, 
Just like a suit in Chancery, or a wife. 



152 FANNY. 

CLXIII. 

That evening, with a most important face 

And dreadful knock, and tidings still more dreadful, 

A notary came — sad things had taken place ; 
My hero had forgot to " do the needful ;" 

A note (amount not stated), with his name on't. 

Was left unpaid — in short, he had " stopped payment." 

CLXIV. 
I hate your tragedies, both long and short ones 

(Except Tom Thumb, and Juan's Pantomime) ; 
And stories woven of sorrows and misfortunes 

Are bad enough in prose, and worse in rhyme : 
Mine, therefore, must be brief Under protest 
His notes remain — the wise can guess the rest. 

CLXV. 
************* 

************* 



FANNY. 153 

CLXVI. 
For two whole days they were the common talk ; 

The party, and the failure, and all that, 
The theme of loungers in their morning walk, 

Porter-house reasoning, and tea-table chat. 
The third, some newer w^onder came to blot them. 
And on the fourth, the " meddling world " forget them. 

CLXVII. 

Anxious, however, something to discover, 

I passed their house — the shutters were all closed ; 

The song of knocker and of bell was over ; 
Upon the steps two chimney sweeps reposed ; 

And on the door my dazzled eyebeam met 

These cabalistic words — " this house to let." 

CLXVIII. 
They live now, like chameleons, upon air 

And hope, and such cold, unsubstantial dishes ; 
That they removed, is clear, but when or where 

None knew. The curious reader, if he wishes, 
May ask them, but in vain. Where grandeur dwells, 
The marble dome — the popular rumor tells ; 



154 FANNY. 

CLXIX. 
But of the dwelling of the proud and poor, 

From their own lips the world will never know 
When better days are gone — it is secure 

Beyond all other mysteries here below, 
Except, perhaps, a maiden lady's age, 
When past the noonday of life's pilgrimage. 

CLXX. 

Fanny ! 'twas with her name my song began ; 

'Tis proper and polite her name should end it ; 
If in my story of her woes, or plan 

Or moral can be traced, 'twas not intended ; 
And if I've wronged her, I can only tell her 
I'm sorry for it — so is my bookseller. 

CLXXI. 

I met her yesterday — her eyes were wet — 

She faintly smiled, and said she had been reading 
The Treasurer's Report in the Gazette, 

Mclntyre's speech, and Campbell's " Love lies bleeding ;'* 
She had a shawl on, 'twas not a Cashmere one. 
And if it cost five dollars, 'twas a dear one. 



FANNY. 155 

CLXXII. 
Her father sent to Albany a prayer 

For office, told how fortune had abused him, 
And modestly requested to be Mayor — 

The Council very civilly refused him ; 
Because, however much they might desire it, 
The "public good," it seem.s, did not require it. 

CLXXIII. 

Some evenings since, he took a lonely stroll 
Along Broadway, scene of past joys and evils ; 

He felt that withering bitterness of soul, 
Quaintly denominated the " blue devils ;" 

And thought of Bonaparte and Belisarius, 

Pompey, and Colonel Burr, and Caius Marius, 

CLXXIV. 

And envying the loud playfulness and mirth 

Of those who passed him, gay in youth and hope, 

He took at Jupiter a shilling's worth 

Of gazing, through the showman's telescope ; 

Sounds as of far-off bells came on his ears, 

He fancied 'twas the music of the spheres. 



156 FANNY. 

CLXXV. 

He was mistaken, it was no such thing, 

Twas Yankee Doodle played by Scudder's band ; 

He muttered, as he lingered listening. 

Something of freedom and our happy land ; 

Then sketched, as to his home he hurried fast, 

This sentimental song — ^his saddest, and his last. 



SONG. 



I. 



Young thoughts have music in them, love 

And happiness their theme ; 
And music wanders in the wind 

That lulls a morning dream. 
And there are angel voices heard, 

In childhood's frolic hours. 
When life is but an April day 

Of sunshine and of showers. 



FANNY. 157 



II. 



There's music in the forest leaves 

When summer winds are there, 
And in the laugh of forest girls 

That braid their sunny hair. 
The first wild bird that drinks the dew, 

From violets of the spring, 
Has music in his song, and in 

The fluttering of his wing. 



UI. 

There's music in the dash of waves 

When the swift bark cleaves their foam ; 
There's music heard upon her deck. 

The mariner's song of home, 
When moon and star beams smiling meet 

At midnight on the sea — 
And there is music — once a week 

In Scudder's balcony. 



158 FANNY. 



IV. 



But the music of young thoughts too soon 

Is faint, and dies away, 
And from our morning dreams we wake 

To curse the coming day. 
And childhood's frolic hours are brief. 

And oft in after years 
Their memory comes to chill the heart, 

And dim the eye with tears. 



V. 

To-day, the forest leaves are green. 

They'll wither on the morrow, 
And the maiden's laugh be changed ere long 

To the widow's wail of sorrow. 
Come with the winter snows, and ask 

Where are the forest birds ? 
The answer is a silent one. 

More eloquent than words. 



FANNY. 159 



VI. 



The moonlight music of the waves 

In storms is heard no more, 
When the living lightning mocks the wreck 

At midnight on the shore, 
And the mariner's song of home has ceased, 

His corse is on the sea — 
And music ceases when it rains 

In Scudder's balcony. 






THE RECORDER. 

A PETITION. 
BY THOMAS CASTALT, 

Dec. 20, 1828. 

" On they move 
In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood 
Of flutes and soft Kecorders." 

Milton. 

" Live in Settles numbers one day more !" 

Pope. 

My dear Recorder, you and I 

Have floated down life's stream together, 
And kept unharmed our friendship's tie 
Through every change of Fortune's sky, 

Her pleasant and her rainy weather. 
Full sixty times since first we met. 
Our birthday suns have risen and set, 



162 THE RECORDER. 

And time has worn the baldness now 
Of Julius Caesar on your brow ; 
Your brow, like his, a field of thought, 
With broad deep furrows, spirit-wrought. 
Whose laurel harvests long have shown 
As green and glorious as his own ; 
And proudly would the C^sar claim 
Companionship with Biker's name, 
His peer in forehead and in fame. 



Both eloquent and learned and brave. 

Born to command and skilled to rule, 
One made the citizen a slave. 

The other makes him more — a fool. 
The Caesar an imperial crown. 

His slaves' mad gift, refused to wear, 
The Riker put his fooPs cap on, 

And found it fitted to a hair ; 
The Caesar, though by birth and breeding. 
Travel, the ladies, and light reading, 



THE REC ORDER. 



103 



A gentleman in mien and mind, 
And fond of Romans and their mothers, 
Was heartless as the Arab's wind, 
And slew some millions of mankind. 

Including enemies and others. 
The Riker, like Bob Acres, stood 
Edgewise upon a field of blood. 

The where and wherefore Swartwout knows, 
Pulled trigger, as a brave man should, 

And shot, God bless them — his own toes. 
The Csesar passed the Rubicon 
With helm, and shield, and breastplate on. 

Dashing his war-horse through the waters ; 
The Riker would have built a barge 
Or steamboat at the city's charge. 

And passed it with his wife and daughters. 



But let that pass. As I have said. 
There's naught, save laurels, on your head. 
And time has changed my clustering hair. 
And showered the snow-flakes thickly there ; 



164 THE RECORDER. 

And though our lives have ever been, 
As different as their different scene ; 
Mine more renowned for rhymes than riches, 
Yours less for scholarship than speeches ; 
Mine passed in low-roofed leafy bower, 
Yours in high halls of pomp and power. 
Yet are we, be the moral told. 
Alike in one thing — growing old, 
Ripened like summer's cradled sheaf. 
Faded like autumn's falling leaf — 
And nearing, sail and signal spread, 
The quiet anchorage of the dead. 
For such is human life, wherever 

The voyage of its bark may be, 
On home's green-banked and gentle river 

Or the world's shoreless, sleepless sea. 



Yes, you have floated down the tide 
Of time, a swan in grace and pride 
And majesty and beauty, till 
The law, the Ariel of your will. 



THE RECORDER. 165 

Power's best beloved, the law of libel 
(A bright link in the legal chain) 
Expounded, settled, and made plain, 
By your own charge, the juror's Bible, 
Has clipped the venomed tongue of slander, 
That dared to call you " Party's gander, 
The leader of the geese who make 

Our city's parks and ponds their home, 
And keep her liberties awake 

By cackling, as their sires saved Rome. 
Gander of Party's pond, wherein 
Lizard, and toad, and terrapin, 
Your ale house patriots, are seen, 

In Faction's feverish sunshine basking :" 
And now, to rend this veil of lies, 
Word-woven by your enemies, 
And keep your sainted memory free 
From tarnish with posterity, 

I take the liberty of asking 
Permission, sir, to write your life, 
With all its scenes of calm and strife, 

And all its turnings and its windings, 



166 THE RECORDER. 

A poem, ill a quarto volume — 

Verse, like the subject, blank and solemn, 

With elegant appropriate bindings, 
Of rat and mole skin the one half, 
The other a part fox, part calf. 
Your portrait, graven line for line, 
From that immortal bust in plaster, 
The master-piece of Art's great master, 

Mr. Praxiteles Browere, 
Whose trowel is a thing divine, 
Shall smile and bow, and promise there. 
And twenty-nine fine forms and faces 

(The Corporation and the Mayor), 
Linked hand in hand, like loves and graces. 

Shall hover o'er it, grouped in air. 
With wild pictorial dance and song ; 
The song of happy bees in bowers, 
The dance of Guido's graceful hours, 
All scattering Flushing's garden flowers 

Round the dear head they've loved so long. 



THE RECORDER. 107 

I know that you are modest, know 

That when you hear your merit's praise, 
Your cheeks' quick blushes come and go, 
Lily and rose-leaf, sun and snow, 

Like maidens' on their bridal days. 
I know that you would fain decline 
To aid me and the sacred Nine, 
In giving to the asking earth 
The story of your wit and worth; 
For if there be a fault to cloud 

The brightness of your clear good sense, 
It is, and be the fact allowed, 

Your only failing — Diffidence! 
An amiable weakness — given 

To justify the sad reflection. 
That in this vale of tears not even 

A Riker is complete perfection, 
A most romantic detestation 
Of power and place, of pay and ration ; 
A strange unwillingness to carry 

The weight of honor on your shoulders, 
For which you have been named, the very 

Sensitive plant of office-holders, 



168 THE RECORDER. 

A shrinking bashfulness, whose grace 

Gives beauty to your manly face. 
Thus shades the green and growing vine 
The rough bark of the mountain pine, 
Thus round her freedom's waking steel 

Harmodius wreathed his country's myrtle : 
And thus the golden lemon's peel 
Gives fragrance to a bowl of turtle. 



True, " many a flower," the poet sings, 

" Is born to blush unseen ;" 
But you, although you blush, are not 

The flower the poets mean. 
In vain you wooed a lowlier lot : 

In vain you clipped your eagle-wings — 
Talents like yours are not forgot 

And buried with earth's common things. 
No ! my dear Riker, I would give 
My laurels, living and to live, 
Or as much cash as you could raise on 
Their value, by hypothecation, 



THE RECORDER. 169 



To be, for one enchanted hour, 
In beauty, majesty, and power, 
What you for forty years have been, 
The Oberon of life's fairy scene. 



An anxious city sought and found you 

In a blessed day of joy and pride, 
Sceptred your jewelled hand, and crowned you 

Her chief, her guardian, and her guide. 
Honors which weaker minds had wrought 

In vain for years, and knelt and prayed for. 
Are all your own, unpriced, unbought. 

Or (which is the same thing) unpaid for. 
Painfully great ! against your will 

Her hundred offices to hold, 
Each chair with dignity to fill, 

And your own pockets with her gold : 
A sort of double duty, making 
Your task a serious undertaking. 



8 



170 THE RECORDER. 

With what delight the eyes of all 
Gaze on you, seated in your Hall, 

Like Sancho in his island, reigning, 
Loved leader of its motley hosts 
Of lawyers and their bills of costs, 

And all things thereto appertaining. 
Such as crimes, constables, and juries, 
Male pilferers and female furies, 
The police and the jpolissons, 
Illegal right and legal wrong, 
Bribes, perjuries, law-craft, and cunning. 
Judicial drollery and punning ; 
And all the et ceteras that grace 
That genteel, gentlemanly place ! 
Or in the Council Chamber standing 

With eloquence of eye and brow. 
Your voice the music of commanding. 

And fascination in your bow. 
Arranging for the civic shows 

Your " men in buckram," as per list, 
Your John Does and your Richard Roes, 

Those Dummys of your games of whist. 



"" . THE RECORDER. 171 

The Council Chamber — where authority 
Consists in two words — a majority. 
For whose contractors' jobs we pay 

Our last dear sixpences for taxes, 
As freely as in Sylla's day, 

Rome bled beneath his lictors' axes. 
Where — on each magisterial nose 

In colors of the rainbow linger. 
Like sunset hues on Alpine snows, 

The printmarks of your thumb and finger 
Where he, the wisest of wild fowl, 
Bird of Jove's blue-eyed maid — the owl, 

That feathered alderman, is heard 
Nightly, by poet's ear alone, 
To other eyes and ears unknown, 

Cheering your every look and word. 
And making, room and gallery through. 

The loud, applauding echoes peal, 
Of his " oil peui on etre mieux 
Qu'au sein de sa familleV^ 

* A favorite French air. In English, " wliere can one be more 
happy than in the bosom of one's family ?" 



172 THE RECORDER. 

Oh for a herald's skill to rank 

Your titles in their due degrees ! 
At Singsing — at the Tradesmen's Bank, 

In Courts, Committees, Caucuses : 
At Albany, where those who knew 

The last year's secrets of the great, 
Call you the golden handle to 

The earthen Pitcher of the State. 
(Poor Pitcher ! that Van Buren ceases 

To want its service gives me pain, 
'Twill break into as many pieces 

As Kitty's of Coleraine.) 
At Bellevue, on her banquet night. 

Where Burgundy and business meet, 
On others, at the heart's delight, 

The Pewter Mug in Frankfort-street ; 
From Harlsem bridge to Whitehall dock. 

From Bloomingdale to Blackwell's Isles, 
Forming, including road and rock, 

A city of some twelve square miles, 
O'er street and alley, square and block, 

Towers, temples, telegraphs, and tiles, 



THE RECORDER. 173 

O'er wharves whose stone and timbers mock 
The ocean's and its navies' shock, 
O'er all the fleets that float before her, 
O'er all their banners waving o'er her, 
Her sky and waters, earth and air — 
You are lord, for who is her lord mayor 1 
Where is he ? Echo answers, M'here 1 
And voices, like the sound of seas, 
Breathe in sad chorus, on the breeze, 
The Highland mourner's melody — 
Oh Hone a rie ! Oh Hone a rie ! 
The hymn o'er happy days departed, 

The Hope that such again may be, 
When power was large and liberal-hearted. 

And wealth was hospitality. 



One more request, and I am lost. 
If you its earnest prayer deny ; 

It is, that you preserve the most 
Inviolable secrecy 

As to my plan. Our fourteen wards 



174 THE RECORDER. 

Contain some thirty-seven bards 
Who, if my glorious theme were known, 
Would make it, thought and word, their own, 
My hopes and happiness destroy, 
- And trample with a rival's joy 

Upon the grave of my renown. 
My younger brothers in the art, 
Whose study is the human heart — 
Minstrels, before whose spells have bowed 
The learned, the lovely, and the proud, 

Ere their life's morning hours are gone — 
Light hearts be theirs, the muse's boon. 
And may their suns blaze bright at noon. 

And set without a cloud. 



HiLLHOusE, whose music, like his themes. 
Lifts earth to heaven — whose poet dreams 
Are pure and holy as the hymn 
Echoed from harps of seraphim. 
By bards that drank at Zion's fountains 



THE RECORDER. 175 

When glory, peace, and hope were hers. 
And beautiful upon her mountains 

The feet of angel messengers. 
Bryant, whose songs are thoughts that bless 

The heart, its teachers, and its joy, 
As mothers blend with their caress 
Lessons of truth and gentleness 

And virtue for the listening boy. 
Spring's lovelier flowers for many a day 
Have blossomed on his wandering way, 
Beings of beauty and decay. 

They slumber in their autumn tomb ; 
But those that graced his own Green River, 

And wreathed the lattice of his home, 
Charmed by his song from mortal doom, 

Bloom on, and will bloom on for ever. 
And Halleck — who has made thy roof, 
St. Tammany ! oblivion-proof — 
Thy beer illustrious, and thee 
A belted knight of chivalry ; 



176 THE RECORDER. 

And changed thy dome of painted bricks 
And porter casks and politics, 

Into a green Arcadian vale, 
With Stephen Allen for its lark, 
Ben Bailey's voice its watch-dog's bark, 

And John Targee its nightingale. 



These, and the other thirty-four. 
Will live a thousand years or more — 
If the world lasts so long. For me, 
I rhyme not for posterity. 
Though pleasant to my heirs might be 

The incense of its praise. 
When I their ancestor, have gone. 
And paid the debt, the only one 

A poet ever pays. 
But many are my years, and few 
Are left me ere night's holy dew. 
And sorrow's holier tears, wall keep 
The grass green where in death I sleep. 



THE RECORDER. 177 

And when that grass is green above me, 
And those who bless me now and love me 

Are sleeping by my side, 
Will it avail me aught that men 
Tell to the world with lip and pen 

That once I lived and died ? 
No : if a garland for my brow 
Is growing, let me have it now, 

While I'm alive to wear it ; 
And if, in whispering my name, 
There's music in the voice of fame 

Like Garcia's, let me hear it ! 



The Christmas holidays are nigh, 
Therefore, till Newyear's Eve, good-by, 

Then " reveno7is a nos moutons,^^ 
Yourself and aldermen — meanwhile, 
Look o'er this letter with a smile ; 
And keep the secret of its song 
As faithfully, but not as long, 

8* 



178 THE RECORDER. 

As you have guarded from the eyes 
Of editorial Paul Prys, 

And other meddling, murmuring claimants, 
Those Eleusinian mysteries, 

The city's cash receipts and payments. 
Yours ever, 

T. C. 



i% 



EPISTLES, ETC. 



TO WALTER BOWNE, ESQ., 



MEMBER OF THE COUNCIL OF APPOINTMENT OF THE STATE OF NEW- 
YORK, AT ALBANY, 1821. 



" Stand not upon the order of your going, 
But go at once." 

" I cannot but remember such things ■were, 
And were most precious to me." 

Macbeth. 



We do not blame you, Walter Bowne, 

For a variety of reasons ; 
You're now the talk of half the town, 
A man of talent and renown. 

And will be for perhaps two seasons. 
That face of yours has magic in it ; 
Its smile transports us in a minute 



182 EPISTLES, ETC. 

To wealth and pleasure's sunny bowers ; 
And there is terror in its frown, 
Which, like a mower's scythe, cuts down 

Our city's loveliest flowers. 



We therefore do not blame you, sir, 

Whate'er our cause of grief may be ; 
And cause enough we have to " stir 

The very stones to mutiny." 
You've driven from the cash and cares 
Of office, heedless of our prayers. 
Men who have been for many a year 
To us and to our purses dear. 

And will be to our heirs for ever, 
Our tears, thanks to the snow and rain, 
Have swelled the brook in Maiden-lane 

Into a mountain river ; 
And when you visit us again, 
Leaning at Tammany on your cane. 
Like warrior on his battle blade. 
You'll mourn the havoc you have made. 



EPISTLES, ETC, 183 

There is a silence and a sadness 

Within the marble mansion now ; 
Some have wild eyes that threaten madness, 

Some think of "kicking up a row." 
Judge Miller will not yet believe 
That you have ventured to bereave 

The city and its hall of him : 
He has in his own fine way stated, 
" The fact must be substantiated," 

Before he'll move a single limb. 
He deems it cursed hard to yield 
The laurel won in every field 

Through sixteen years of party war, 
And to be seen at noon no more, 
Enjoying at his office door 

The luxury of a tenth segar. 
Judge Warner says that, when he's gone. 

You'll miss the true Dogberry breed ; 
And Christian swears that you have done 

A most UN-Christian deed. 



184 EPISTLES, ETC. 

How could you have the heart to strike 
From place the peerless Pierre Van Wyck 1 
And the twin colonels, Haines and Pell, 
Squire Fessenden, and Sheriff Bell ; 
Morrell, a justice and a wise one. 
And Ned M'Laughlin the exciseman ; 
The two health officers, believers 
In Clinton and contagious fevers ; 
The keeper of the city's treasures, 
The sealer of her weights and measures, 
The harbor-master, her best bower 
Cable in party's stormy hour ; 
Ten auctioneers, three bank directors, 
And Mott and Duffy, the inspectors 
Of whiskey and of flour ? 



It was but yesterday they stood 

All (ex-officio) great and good. 

But by the tomahawk struck down 

Of party and of Walter Bowne, 

Where are they now 1 With shapes of air, 



EPISTLES, ETC. 185 

The caravan of things that were, 

Journeying to their nameless home, 

Like Mecca's pilgrims from her tomb ; 

With the lost Pleiad ; with the wars 

Of Agamemnon's ancestors ; 

With their own years of joy and grief. 

Spring's bud, and autumn's faded leaf; 

With birds that round their cradles flew ; 

With winds that in their boyhood blew ; 

With last night's dream and last night's dew. . 



Yes, they are gone ; alas ! each one of them ; 
Departed — every mother's son of them. 
Yet often, at the close of day, 
When thoughts are \Vinged and wandering, they 
Come with the memory of the past, 

Lilve sunset clouds along the mind, 
Reflecting, as they're flitting fast 
In their wild hu^s of shade and light. 
All that was beautiful and bright 

In golden moments left behind. 



r£ Q * * * * 

Dear * * * ^ I am writing, not to you, but at you, 

For the feet of you tourists have no resting-place ; 
But wherever with this the mail-pigeon may catch you, 

May she find you with gayety's smile on your face; 
Whether chasing a snipe at the Ealls of Cohoes, 
Or chased by the snakes upon Anthony's Nose ; 
Whether wandering, at Catskill, from Hotel to Clove, 
Making sketches, or speeches, puns, poems, or love ; 
Or in old Saratoga's unknown fountain-land. 
Threading groves of enchantment, half bushes, half sand : 
Whether dancing on Sundays, at Lebanon Springs, 

With those Madame Hutins of religion, the Shakers ; 
Or, on Tuesdays, with maidens who seek wedding-rings 

At Ballston, as taught by mammas and match-makers; 



EPISTLES, ETC. 187 

Whether sailing St. Lawrence, with unbroken neck. 
From her thousand green isles to her castled Quebec ; 
Or sketching Niagara, pencil on knee 

(The giant of waters, our country's pet lion), 
Or dipped at Long Branch, in the real salt sea, 

With a cork for a dolphin, a Cockney Arion ; 
Whether roaming earth, ocean, or even the air. 
Like Dan O'Rourke's eagle — gook luck to you there. 



For myself, as you'll see by the date of my letter, 
I'm in town, but of that fact the least said the better ; 
For 'tis vain to deny (though the city o'erflows 
With well-dressed men and women, whom nobody 

knows) 
That one rarely sees persons whose nod is an honor, 
A lady with flishion's own impress upon her ; 
Or a gentleman blessed with the courage to say, 
Like Morris (the Prince Regent's friend, in his day), 
" Let others in sweet shady solitudes dwell, 
Oh ! give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall." 



188 EPISTLES, ETC. 

Apropos — our friend A. chanced this morning to meet 
The accomplished Miss B. as he passed Contoit's 
Garden, 
Both in town in July ! — he crossed over the street, 

And she entered the rouge-shop of Mrs. St. Martin. 
Resolved not to look at another known face, 
Through Leonard and Church streets she walked to Park 

Place, 
And he turned from Broadway into Catharine-lane, 

And coursed, to avoid her, through alley and by-street, 
Till they met, as the devil would have it, again, 
Face to face, near the pump at the corner of Dey- 
street. 



Yet, as most of "The Fashion" are journeying now. 
With the brown hues of summer on cheek and on brow, 
The few " gens comme il faut " who are lingering here, 
Are, like fruits out of season, more welcome and dear. 
Like " the last rose of summer, left blooming alone," 
Or the last snows of winter, pure ice of hcmt ton, 



EPISTLES, ETC. 189 

Unmelted, undimmed by the sun's brightest ray, 

And, like diamonds, making night's darkness seem day. 

One meets them in groups, that Canova might fancy, 

At our new lounge at evening, the Ojpera Frangais^ 

In nines like the Muses, in threes like the Graces, 

Green spots in a desert of commonplace faces. 

The Queen, Mrs. x\dams, goes there sweetly dressed 

In a beautiful bonnet, all golden and flowery : 
While the King, Mr. Bonaparte, smiles on Celeste, 

Ileloise, and Hutin, from his box at the Bowery. 



For news, Parry still the North Sea is exploring, 

And the Grand Turk has taken, they say, the Acropolis, 
And we, in Swamp Place, have discovered, in boring, 

A mineral spring to refme the metropolis. 
The day we discovered it was, by-the-way 
In the life of the Cockneys, a glorious day. 
For we all had been taught, by tradition and reading, 

That to gain what admits us to levees of kings. 
The gentleness, courtesy, grace of high breeding. 

The only sure way was to " visit the Springs." 



190 EPISTLES, ETC. 

So the whole city visited Swamp Spring en masse, 

From attorney to sweep, from physician to pavior, 
To drink of cold water at sixpence a glass, 

And learn true politeness and genteel behavior. 
Though the crowd was immense till the hour of departure, 

No gentleman's feelings were hurt in the rush, 
Save a grocer's, who lost his proof-glass and bung- 
starter, 
And a chimney-sweep's, robbed of his scraper and 
brush. 
They lingered till sunset and twilight had come. 

When, wearied in limb, but much polished in manners, 
The sovereign people moved gracefully home, 

In the beauty and pride of " an army with banners." 



As to politics — Adams and Clinton yet live, 

And reign, we presume, as we never have missed 'em. 

And woollens and Webster continue to thrive 
Under something they call the American System. 

If you're anxious to know what the country is doing. 

Whether ruined already or going to ruin, 



I 



EPISTLES, ETC. 191 

And who her next president will be, please heaven, 
Eead the letters of Jackson, the speeches of Clay, 
All the party newspapers, three columns a day. 

And Blunt's Annual Register, year 'twenty-seven. 



A FRAGMENT. 



* 



IIis shop is a grocer's — a snug, genteel place, 
Near the corner of Oak-street and Pearl ; 

He can dress, dance, and bow to the ladies with grace, 
And ties his cravat with a curl. 

He's asked to all parties — north, south, east, and west, 
That take place between Chatham and Cherry, 

And when he's been absent full oft has the " best 
Society " ceased to be merry. 

And nothing has darkened a sky so serene. 
Nor disordered his beauship's Elysium, 

Till this season among our elite there has been 
What is called by the clergy " a schism." 



EPISTLES, ETC. 193 

'Tis all about eating and drinking — one set 
Gives sponge-cake, a few " kisses " or so, 

And is cooled after dancing with classic sherbet, 
" Sublimed " (see Lord Byron) " with snow." 

Another insists upon punch and ^:)er(fri^, 
Lobster-salad, Champagne, and, by way 

Of a novelty only, those pearls of our sea, 
Stewed oysters from Lynn-Haven bay. 

Miss Flounce, the young milliner, blue-eyed and bright, 

In the front parlor over her shop, 
" Entertains," as the phrase is, a party to-night, 

Upon peanuts and ginger-pop. 

And Miss Fleece, who's a hosier, and not quite as young, 

But is wealthier far than Miss Flounce, 
She " entertains " also to-night with cold tongue. 

Smoked herring, and cherry -bounce. 

In praise of cold water the Theban bard spoke, 

He of Teos sang sweetly of wine ; 

Miss Flounce is a Pindar in cashmere and cloak, 

Miss Fleece an Anacreon divine. 
9 



194 EPISTLES, ETC. 

The Montagues carry the day in Swamp Place ; 

In Pike-street the Capulets reign ; 
A limonadiere is the badge of one race, 

Of the other a flask of Champagne. 

Now as each the same evening her soiree announces, 

What better, he asks, can be done, 
Than drink water from eight until ten with the Flounces, 

And then wine with the Fleeces till one ! 



* 



SONG. 



BY MISS » * * ». 



Air : " To ladies' eyes a round, boy," 

Moore. 



The winds of March are humming 

Their parting song, their parting song, 
And summer's skies are coming, 

And days grow long, and days grow long. 
I watch, but not in gladness, 

Our garden tree, our garden tree ; 
It buds, in sober sadness, 

Too soon for me, too soon for me. 
My second winter's over, 

Alas ! and I, alas ! and I 
Have no accepted lover : 

Don't ask me why, don't ask me why. 



196 EPISTLES, ETC. 

'Tis not asleep or idle 

That love has been, that love has been ; 
For many a happy bridal 

The year has seen, the year has seen ; 
I've done a bridemaid's dutv, 

At three or four, at three or four ; 
My best bouquet had beauty, 
Its donor more, its donor more. 
My second winter's over, 

Alas ! and I, alas ! and I 
Have no accepted lover : 

Don't ask me why, don't ask me why. 



His flowers my bosom shaded 

One sunny day, one sunny day ; 
The next, they fled and faded, 

Beau and bouquet, beau and bouquet. 
In vain, at ball and parties, 

I've thrown my net, I've thrown my net ; 
This waltzing, watching heart is 

Unchosen yet, unchosen yet. 



EPISTLES, ETC. 197 

My second winter's over, 

Alas ! and I, alas ! and I 
Have no accepted lover : 
Don't ask me why, don't ask me why. 



They tell me there's no hurry 

For Hymen's ring, for Hymen's ring ; 
And I'm too young to marry : 

'Tis no such thing, 'tis no such thing. 
The next spring tides will dash on 

My eighteenth year, my eighteenth year ; 
It puts me in a passion, 

Oh dear, oh dear ! oh dear, oh dear ! 
My second winter's over, 

Alas ! and I, alas ! and I 
Have no accepted lover : 

Don't ask me why, don't ask me why. 



SONG. 

FOR THE DRAMA OF «' THE SPY." 

A. 

The harp of* love, when first I heard 

Its song beneath the moonlight tree, 
Was echoed by his plighted word, 

And ah, how dear its song to me ; 
But wailed the hour will ever be 

When to the air the bugle gave, 
To hush love's gentle minstrelsy. 

The wild war music of the brave. 



EPISTLES, ETC. 199 

For he hath heard its song, and now 

Its voice is sweeter than mine own ; 
And he hath broke the plighted vow 

He breathed to me and love alone. 
That harp hath lost its wonted tone, 

No more its strings his fingers move, 
Oh would that he had only known 

The music of the harp of love. 
1822. 



AD DRESS. 

AT THE OPENING OF A NEW THEATRE, 

November, 1831. 

Where dwells the Drama's spirit ? not alone 
Beneath the palace roof, beside the throne, 
In learning's cloisters, friendship's festal bowers, 
Art's pictured halls, or triumph's laurelled towers, 
"Where'er man's pulses beat, or passions play, 
She joys to smile or sigh his thoughts away : 
Crowd times and scenes within her ring of power. 
And teach a life's experience in an hour. 



To-night she greets, for the first time, our dome, 
Her latest, may it prove her lasting home ; 



EPISTLES, ETC. 201 

And we her messengers delighted stand, 
The summoned Ariels of her mystic wand, 
To ask your welcome. Be it yours to give 
Bliss to her coming hours, and bid her live 
Within these walls new hallowed in her cause, 
Long in the nurturing warmth of your applause. 



'Tis in the public smiles, the public loves. 

His dearest home, the actor breathes and moves, 

Your plaudits are to us and to our art 

As is the life-blood to the human heart : 

And every power that bids the leaf be green, 

In nature acts on this her mimic scene. 

Our sunbeams are the sparklings of glad eyes, 

Our winds the whisper of applause, that flies 

From lip to lip, the heart-born laugh of glee, 

And sounds of cordial hands that ring out merrily, 

And heaven's own dew falls on us in the tear 

Tliat woman weeps o'er sorrows pictured here, 

When crowded feelings have no words to tell 

The might, the magic of the actor's spell. 

9* 



202 EPISTLES, ETC. 

These have been ours ; and do we hope in vain 
Here, oft and deep, to feel them ours again ? 
No ! while the weary heart can find repose 
From its own pains in fiction's joys or woes ; 
While there are open lips and dimpled cheeks, 
When music breathes, or wit or humor speaks ; 
While Shakspeare's master spirit can call up 
Noblest and worthiest thoughts, and brim the cup 
Of life with bubbles bright as happiness. 
Cheating the willing bosom into bliss ; 
So long will those who, in their spring of youth, 
Have listened to the Drama's voice of truth. 
Marked in her scenes the manners of their age. 
And gathered knowledge for a wider stage. 
Come here to speed with smiles life's summer years. 
And melt its winter snow with pleasant tears ; 
And younger hearts, when ours are hushed and cold, 
Be happy here as we have been of old. 



Friends of the stage, who hail it as the shrine 
Where music, painting, poetry entwine 



EPISTLES, ETC. 203 

Their kindred garlands, whence their blended power 
Refines, exalts, ennobles hour by hour 
The spirit of the land, and, like the wind, 
Unseen but felt, bears on the bark of mind ; 
To you the hour that consecrates this dome, 
Will call up dreams of prouder hours to come, 
When some creating poet, born your own. 
May waken here the drama's loftiest tone, 
Through after years to echo loud and long, 
A Shakspeare of the West, a star of song, 
Bright'ning your own blue skies with living fire, 
All times to gladden and all tongues inspire, 
Far as beneath the heaven by sea-winds fanned, 
Floats the free banner of your native land. 



THE RHYME 



OF 



THE ANCIENT COASTER 



WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN AN OPEN BOAT ON THE HUDSON RIVER, 

BETWEEN STONY POINT AND THE HIGHLANDS, ON SEEING 

THE WRECK OF AN OLD SLOOP, JUNE, 1821. 



*' And this our life, exempt from public haunt, 
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing." 

Shakspeabe. 



Her side is in the water, 

Her keel is in the sand, 
And her bowsprit rests on the low gray rock 

That bounds the sea and land. 



EPISTLES, ETC. 205 

Her deck is without a mast, 

And sand and shells are there. 
And the teeth of decay are gnawing her planks, 

In the sun and the sultry air. 

No more on the river's bosom, 

When sky and wave are calm, 
And the clouds are in summer quietness, 

And the cool night-breath is balm, 

Will she glide in the swan-like stillness 

Of the moon in the blue above, 
A messenger from other lands, 

A beacon to hope and love. 

No more, in the midnight tempest, 

Will she mock the mounting sea. 
Strong in her oaken timbers, 

And her white sail's bravery. 

She hath borne, in days departed, 

Warm hearts upon her deck ; 
Those hearts, like her, are mouldering now, 

The victims, and the wreck 



206 EPISTLES, ETC. 

Of time, whose touch erases 

Each vestige of all we love ; 

The wanderers, home returning, 
Who gazed that deck above, 

And they who stood to welcome 
Their loved ones on that shore. 

Are gone, and the place that knew them 
Shall know them never mo-re. 



* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


* 



It was a night of terror, 

In the autumn equinox. 
When that gallant vessel found a grave 

Upon the Peekskill rocks. 

Captain, mate, cook, and seamen 
(They were in all but three). 

Were saved by swimming fast and well. 
And their gallows-destiny. 



EPISTLES, ETC. 207 

But two, a youth and maiden, 

Were left to brave the storm, 
With unpronounceable Dutch names, 

And hearts with true love warm. 

And they, for love has watchers 

In air, on earth, and sea. 
Were saved by clinging to the wreck, 

And their marriage-destiny. 

From sunset to night's noon 

She had leaned upon his arm. 
Nor heard the far-off thunder toll 

The tocsin of alarm. 

Not so the youth — he listened 

To the cloud-wing flapping by ; 
And low he whispered in Low Dutch, 

" It tells our doom is nigh. 

" Death is the lot of mortals. 

But we are young and strong. 
And hoped, not boldly, for a life 

Of happy years and long. 



208 EPISTLES, ETC. 

" Yet 'tis a thought consolmg, 

That, till our latest breath, 
We loved in life, and shall not be 

Divided in our death. 

" Alas, for those that wait us 

On their couch of dreams at home, 

The morn will hear the funeral cry- 
Around their daughter's tomb. 

" They hoped" ('twas a strange moment 
In Dutch to quote Shakspeare) 

" Thy bride-bed to have decked, sweet maid, 
And not have strewed thy bier." 

But sweetly-voiced and smiling. 

The trusting maiden said, 
" Breathed not thy lips the vow to-day. 

To-morrow we will wed 1 

" And I, who have known thy truth 
Through years of joy and sorrow, 

Can I believe the fickle winds ? 

No ! we shall wed to-morrow !" 



EPISTLES, ETC. 209 

The tempest heard and paused — ■ 

The wild sea gentler moved — 
They felt the power of woman's faith 

In the word of him she loved. 

All night to rope and spar 

They clung with strength untired, 
Till the dark clouds fled before the sun, 

And the fierce storm expired. 

At noon the song of bridal bells 

O'er hill and valley ran ; 
At eve he called the maiden his, 

" Before the holy man." 

They dwelt beside the waters 

That bathe yon fallen pine. 
And round them grew their sons and daughters, 

Like wild grapes on the vine. 

And years and years flew o'er them. 

Like birds with beauty on their wings, 

And theirs were happy sleigh-ride winters. 
And long and lovely springs, 



210 EPISTLES, ETC. 

Such joys as thrilled the lips that kissed, 

The wave, rock-cooled, from Horeb's fountains, 

And sorrows, fleeting as the mist 

Of morning, spread upon the mountains, 

Till, in a good old age, 

Their life-breath passed away ; 
Their name is on the churchyard page — 

Their story in my lay. 



* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


^ 


* 


* 



And let them rest together, 

The maid, the boat, the boy, 
Why sing of matrimony now. 

In this brief hour of joy ? 

Our time may come, and let it — 
'Tis enough for us now to know 

That our bark will reach West Point ere long. 
If the breeze keep on to blow. 



EPISTLES, ETC. 211 

We have Hudibras and Milton, 

Wines, flutes, and a bugle-horn. 
And a dozen segars are lingermg yet 

Of the thousand of yestermorn. 

They have gone, like life's first pleasures, 

And faded in smoke away, 
And the few that are left are like bosom friends 

In the evening of our day. 

We are far from the mount of battle,* 

Where the wreck first met mine eye, 
And now where twin-fortsf in the olden time rose. 
Through the Race, like a swift steed, our little bark goes, 
And our bugle's notes echo through Anthony's Nose, 

So wrecks and rhymes — good-by. 

* Stony Point. t Forts Clinton and Montgomery. 



LINES 

TO HER WHO CAN UNDERSTAND THEM. 

Am : " To ladies' eyes a round, boy !" 

The song that o'er me hovered, 

In summer's hour, in summer's hour, 
To-day with joy has covered 

My winter bower, my winter bower. 
Blest be the lips that breathe it. 

As mine have been, as mine have been, 
When pressed in dreams beneath it, 

To hers unseen, to hers unseen. 



EPISTLES, ETC. 218 

And may her heart, wherever 

Its hope may be, its hope may be, 
Beat happily, though never 

To beat for me, to beat for me. 

Is she a spirit given 

One hour to earth, one hour to earth, 
To bring me dreams from heaven. 

Her place of birth, her place of birth 1 
Or minstrel maiden hidden. 

Like cloistered nun, like cloistered nun, 
A bud, a flower forbidden, 

To air and sun, to air and sun 1 
For had I power to summon, 

With harp divine, with harp divine, 
The angel or the woman, 

The last were mine, the last were mine. 

If earth-born beauty's fingers 

Awaked the lay, awaked the lay. 
Whose echoed m.usic lingers 

Around my way, around my way, 



214 EPISTLES, ETC. 

Where smiles the hearth she blesses 

With voice and eye, with voice and eye 1 
Where binds the night her tresses, 

When sleep is nigh, when sleep is nigh 1 
Is Fashion's bleak cold mountain 

Her bosom's throne, her bosom's throne ? 
Or love's green vale and fountain. 

With one alone, with one alone 1 



Why ask 1 why seek a treasure 

Like her I sing, like her I sing "? 
Her name nor pain nor pleasure 

To me should bring, to me should bring. 
Love must not grieve or gladden 

My thoughts of snow, my thoughts of snow, 
Nor woman soothe or sadden 

My path below, my path below. 
Before a worldlier altar 

I've knelt too long, I've knelt too long ; 
And if my footsteps falter 

'Tis but in song, 'tis but in song. 



EPISTLES, ETC. 215 

Nor would I break the vision 

Young fancies frame, young fancies frame, 
That lights with stars Elysian 

A poet's name, a poet's name. 
Tor she whose gentle spirit 

Such dreams sublime, such dreams sublime, 
Gives hues they do not merit 

To sons of rhyme, to sons of rhyme. 
But place the proudest near her, 

Whate'er their pen, whate'er their pen, 
She'll say (be mute who hear her) 

Mere mortal men, mere mortal men ! 



Yet though unseen, unseeing. 

We meet and part, we meet and part. 
Be still my worshipped being. 

In mind and heart, in mind and heart. 
And bid thy song that found me. 

My minstrel maid, my minstrel maid ! 
Be winter's sunbeam round me. 

And summer's shade, and summer's shade. 



216 EPISTLES, ETC. 

I could not gaze upon thee, 

And dare thy spell, and dare thy spell, 
And when a happier won thee, 

Thus bid farewell, thus bid farewell. 
1832. 



EXTRACT. 

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. 

(See page 80.) 

I. 

TiiEY burnt their last witch in Connecticut 

About a century and a half ago ; 
They made a school-house of her forfeit hut, 

And gave a pitying sweet-briar leave to grow 
Above her thankless ashes ; and they put 

A certified description of the show 

Between two weeping willows, craped with black, 

On the last page of that year's almanac. 

10 



218 EXTRACT. 



11. 



Some warning and well-meant remarks were made 
Upon the subject by the weekly printers ; 

The people murmured at the taxes laid 

To pay for jurymen and pitch-pine splinters, 

And the sad story made the rose-leaf fade 

Upon young listeners' cheeks for several winters, 

When told at fire-side eves by those who saw 

Executed — the lady and the law. 



III. 



She and the law found rest : years rose and set ; 

That generation, cottagers and kings. 
Slept with their fathers, and the violet 

Has mourned above their graves a hundred springs 
Tew persons keep a file of the Gazette, 

And almanacs are sublunary things. 
So that her fame is almost lost to earth, 
As if she ne'er had breathed ; and of her birth, 



EXTRACT. 219 



IV. 



And death, and lonely life's mysterious matters, 
And how she played, in our forefathers' times, 

The very devil with their sons and daughters ; 
And how those " delicate Ariels " of her crimes, 

The spirits of the rocks, and woods, and waters, 
Obeyed her bidding when, in charmed rhymes, 

She muttered, at deep midnight, spells whose power 

Woke from brief dream of dew the sleeping summer 
flower. 

V. 

And hushed the night-bird's solitary hymn, 
And spoke in whispers to the forest-tree, 

Till his awed branches trembled, leaf and limb. 
And grouped her church-yard shapes of fantasie 

Round merry moonlight's meadow-fountain's brim, 
And, mocking for a space the dread decree. 

Brought back to dead, cold lips the parted breath, ^ 

And changed to banquet-board the bier of death, 



220 EXTRACT. 



VI. 



None knew — except a patient, precious few, 

Who've read the folios of one Cotton Mather, 

A chronicler of tales more strange than true, 

New-England's chaplain, and her history's father ; 

A second Monmouth's Geoffry, a new 
Herodotus, their laurelled victor rather, 

For in one art he soars above them high : 

The Greek or Welshman does not always lie. 



VII. 



Know ye the venerable Cotton 1 He 

Was the first publisher's tourist on this station ; 

The first who made, by libelling earth and sea, 
A huge book, and a handsome speculation : 

And ours was then a land of mystery. 
Fit theme for poetry's exaggeration. 

The wildest wonder of the month ; and there 

He wandered freely, like a bird or bear, 



EXTRACT. 221 



Vffl. 



And wove bis forest dreams into quaint prose, 
Our sires his heroes, where, in holy strife, 

They treacherously war with friends and foes ; 
Where meek Religion wears the assassin's knife, 

And ' bids the desert blossom like the rose,' 
By sprinkling earth with blood of Indian life. 

And rears her altars o'er the indignant bones 

Of murdered maidens, wives, and little ones. 



IX. 



Herod of Galilee's babe-butchering deed 
Lives not on history's blushing page alone ; 

Our skies, it seems, have seen like victims bleed. 
And our own Ramahs echoed groan for groan : 

The fiends of France, whose cruelties decreed 

Those dexterous drownings in the Loire and Rhone, 

Were at their worst, but copyists second-hand 

Of our shrined, sainted sires, the Plymouth pilgrim-band, 



222 EXTRACT. 



X. 



Or else fibs Mather. Kindred wolves have bayed 
Truth's moon in chorus, but believe them not ! 

Beneath the dark trees that the Lethe shade, 
Be he, his folios, followers, flicts, forgot ; 

And let his perishing monument be made 
Of his own unsold volumes : 'tis the lot 

Of many, may be mine ; and be it Mather's, 

That slanderer of the memorv of our fathers. 



XI. 



And who were they, our fathers ? In their veins 
Ran the best blood of England's gentlemien ; 

Her bravest in the strife on battle-plains, 
Her wisest in the strife of voice and pen ; 

Her holiest, teaching, in her holiest fanes, 
The lore that led to martyrdom ; and when 

On this side ocean slept their wearied sails. 

And their toil-bells woke up our thousand hills and dales, 



EXTRACT. 223 



XII. 



Shamed they their fathers ? Ask the village-spires 
Above their Sabbath-homes of praise and prayer ; 

Ask of their children's happy household-fires, 
And happier harvest-noons ; ask summer's air, 

Made merry by young voices, when the wires 
Of their school-cages are unloosed, and dare 

Their slanderer's breath to blight the memory 

That o'er their graves is " growing green to see !" 

XIII. 

If he has " writ their annals true ;" if they, 

The Christian-sponsored and the Christian-nurst, 

Clouded with crime the sunset of their day 

And warmed their winter's hearths with fires accurst ; 

And if the stain that time wears not away 
Of guilt was on the pilgrim axe that first 

Our wood-paths roses blest with smiles from heaven. 

In charity forget, and hope to be forgiven. 



224 EXTRACT, 



XIV. 

Forget their story's cruelty and wrong ; 

Forget their story-teller ; or but deem 
His facts the fictions of a minstrel's song, 

The myths and marvels of a poet's dream. 
And are they not such ? Suddenly among 

My mind's dark thoughts its boyhood's sunrise beam 
Breathes in spring balm and beauty o'er my page — 
Jc>y ! joy ! my patriot wrath hath wronged the reverend 
sage. 

XV. 

Welcome ! young boyhood, welcome ! Of thy lore. 
Thy morning-gathered wealth of prose and rhyme, 

Of fruit the flower, of gold the infant ore. 

The roughest shuns not manhood's stormy clime, 

But loves wild ocean's winds and breakers' roar 
While, of the blossoms of the sweet spring-time, 

The bonniest, and most bountiful of joy. 

Shrink from the man, and cling around the boy. 



EXTRACT. 225 



XVI. 



But now, like doves " with healing on their wings," 
Blossom and fruit with gladdening kindness come, 

Charming to sleep my murmuring song, that sings 
Unworthy dirges over Mather's tomb : 

Welcome the olive-branch their message brings ! 
It bids me wish him not the mouldering doom 

Of nameless scribes of " memoires pour servir^^ 

Dishonest " chroniclers of time's small-beer." 

XVII. 

No ; a born Poet, at his cradle-fire 

The muses nursed him as their bud unblown, 

And gave him, as his mind grew high and higher. 
Their ducal strawberry leafs enwreathed renown. 

Alas ! that mightiest masters of the lyre, 

V^hose pens above an eagle's heart have grown, 

In all the proud nobility of wing. 

Should stoop to dip their points in passion's poison-spring. 

10* 



226 EXTRACT. 



XVIII. 

Yet Milton, weary of his youth's young wife, 
To her, to king, to church, to law untrue, 

Warred for divorce and discord to the knife. 
And proudest wore his plume of darkest hue : 

And Dante, when his Florence, in her strife, 
Robbed him of office and his temper, threw 

'Mongst friends and foes a bomb-shell of fierce rhymes, 

Shivering their names and fames to all succeeding times. 

XIX. 

And our own Mather's fire-and-faggot tale 

Of Conquest, with her " garments rolled in blood,'* 

And banners blackening, like a pirate's sail. 

The Mayflower's memories of the brave and good, 

Though but a brain-born dream of rain and hail, 
And in his epic but an episode. 

Proves mournfully the strange and sad admission 

Of much sour grape-juice in his disposition. 



EXTRACT. 227 



O Genius ! powerful with thy praise or blame, 
When art thou feigning ? when art thou sincere 1 

Mather, who banned his living friends with shame, 
In funeral-sermons blessed them on their bier, 

And made their death-beds beautiful with fame — 
Fame true and gracious as a widow's tear 

To her departed darling husband given ; 

Him whom she scolded up from earth to heaven. 

XXI. 

Thanks for his funeral sermons ; they recall 
The sunshine smiling through his folio's leaves, 

That makes his readers' hours in bower or hall 
Joyous as plighted hearts on bridal eves ; 

Chasing, like music from the soul of Saul, 

The doubt that darkens, and the ill that grieves ; 

And honoring the author's heart and mind, 

That beats to bless, and toils to ennoble human kind. 



228 EXTRACT. 



XXII. 

His chaplain-mantle worthily to wear, 
He fringed its sober gray with poet-bays, 

And versed the Psalms of David to the air 
Of Yankee-Doodle, for Thanksgiving-days ; 

Thus hallowing with the earnestness of prayer, 
And patriotic purity of praise. 

Unconscious of irreverence or wrong, 

Our manliest battle-tune and merriest bridal song. 



XXIII. 

The good the Rhine-song does to German hearts. 
Or thine, Marseilles ! to France's fiery blood ; 

The good thy anthemed harmony imparts, 

" God save the Queen !" to England's field and flood, 

A home-born blessing, Nature's boon, not Art's ; 
The same heart-cheering, spirit-warming good. 

To us and ours, where'er we war or woo. 

Thy words and music, Yankee-Doodle ! — do. 



EXTRACT. 229 



XXIV. 



Beneath thy Star, as one of the Thirteen, 

Land of my lay ! through many a battle's night 

Thy gallant men stepped steady and serene, 
To that war-music's stern and strong delight. 

Where bayonets clenched above the trampled green, 
Where sabres grappled in the ocean fight ; 

In siege, in storm, on deck or rampart, there 

They hunted the wolf Danger to his lair, 

And sought and won sweet Peace, and wreaths for 
Honor's hair ! 

XXV. 

And with thy smiles, sweet Peace, came woman's, bringing 
The Eden-sunshine of her welcome kiss. 

And lover's flutes, and children's voices sincrino- 
The maiden's promised, matron's perfect bliss. 

And heart and home-bells blending with their ringing 
Thank-offerings borne to holier worlds than this, 

And the proud green of Glory's laurel-leaves. 

And gold, the gift to Peace, of Plenty's summer sheaves. 



NOTES. 



(1) Page 9. — Alnwick Castle, Northumberlandsliire, a seat of tho 
Duke of Northumberland. Written in October, 1822. 

From Mm who once This standard set. — ^Page 12. 

(2) One of the ancestors of the Percy family was an Emperor of 
Constantinople. 

Fought for King George at Lexmgton. — Page 12. 

(3) The late duke. He commanded a detachment of the Britisli 
army, in the affair at Lexington and Concord, in 1775. 

From royal Berwick'' s teach of sand.— 'Page 13. 

(4) Berwick was formerly a principality. Eichard II. was styled 
" King of England, France, and Ireland, and Berwick-upon-Tweed." 

(5) Page 16. — Maboo Bozzaeis, one of the best and bravest of tho 
modern Greek chieftains. He fell in a night attack upon the Turkish 
camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platsea, August 20, 1823, and 
expired in the moment of victory. 

(6) Page 30. — Wyomixo. — The allusions in the following stanzas 
can be understood by those only who have read Campbell's beautiful 
poem, " Gertrude ob* Wyoming :" but who has not read it ? 



232 NOTES. 

(7) Page 50. — "Ked Jacket" appeared originally in 1828, soon 
after the publication of Mr. Cooper's " Notions of the Americans." 

(8) Page 64. — Magdalen. — Written in 1823, for a love-stricken 
young officer on his way to Greece. The reader will have the kind- 
ness to presume that he died there. 

(9) Page 89. — Lieut. Allen. — He commanded the U. S. Sloop-of- 
War Alligator, and was mortally wounded on the 9th of November, 
1822, in an action with pirates, near Matanzas, in the Island of Cuba. 
His mother, a few hours after hearing of his death, died — hterally of 
a broken heart. 



JUST PUBLISHED, 

LYRA, AND OTHER POEMS. 

By ALICE CAREY, 

AUTHOR OF "CLOVERNOOK," AND ONE OF THE AUTHORS OF "POEMS BY 
ALICE AND PH(ECE CAREY." 

In one volume, 12rao, cloth, price 75 cts. 

"Whether poetry be defined as the rhythmical creation of beauty, as passion or elo- 
quence in harmonious numbers, or as thought and feehng maniCested by processes of 
the imagination, Alice Carey is incontestably and incomparably the first living American 
poetess— fresh, indigenous, national— rich beyond precedent in suitable and sensuous im- 
agery—of the finest and highest qualities of feeling, and such powers of creation as the 
Almighty has seen fit to bestow but rarely or in far-separated countries. . . . The forms 

of her imagination are clothed with spoils she herself has brought'from the fields. The 

feelings displayed in her poems are in an eminent degree fruits of her own experience. 
In all literature there is nothing in every respect more certainly genuine It may ea- 
sily be inferred from many of her compositions who an^ her favorite poets— especially 
that Chaucer and Milton are lovingly studied by her; but it is impossible to deny that 
she has original and extraordinary powers, or that the elements of genius are poured 
forth in her verses with an astonishing richness and prodigality " — Boston TranscripU 

"Some ot these poems are truly great. Miss Carey is amonsr the best of living poets, 
There are startling intimations of power, low, vague murmurings of a magic voice, 
everywhere to be detected, which leave the impression of genius undeveloped, and yet 
to shine forth. A deep, mellow feeling, the chords of which are susceptil)le of heaven- 
ly music, a power and sweetness of versification, and a familiar touch of those transcen- 
dent truths to which genius alone has access, are qualities of the true poet. We feel 
the spell the moment we enter the sphere of her thought."- iVew York Evangelist. 

"Miss Carey possesses a lively and delicate fancy i her mind teems with rural im- 
ages, which have been suggested by a genuine passion for nature ; she avails herself 
with spontaneous facility, of the everyday sights and sounds of the country for the 
purposes of poetry ; throwing the charm of a""graceful ideality over the homeliest de- 
tails of household life ; her verse flows in a vein of pure and tender sentiment ; while 
she possesses a sufficient variety and strength of expression to do justice to her highest 
inspirations. In sweetness, in pathos, in tenderness, in the simple melody of versifica- 
tion, she will compare favorably with Mrs, Browning, or with any other living poetess. 
She is always calm, reverent, and subdued."— iVe?c York Daily Tribtme. 

" These are the sweetest and most beautiful poems we have ever read. When once 
taken up the volume must be finished. There is something so charmingly rich, so 
delightfully enchanting, yet so simple and natural in its contents, that they take right 
hold ot the mind and heart and leave an impression for ever. Alice Carey is no common 
author. Whatever she writes, in prose or poetry, contains so many strong points of 
originality, of real genius, of well-cultivated and fertile imagination, that it may be justly 
sanl she writes for immortality. She is a jewel in the casket of American literature, that 
dims the lustre of the most precious in that of any other nRtiou."— Syracuse Daily Jonrnal 

"The author holds an honorable place in the front rank of our poets, and hoth here 
and in Europe is esteemed one of the sweetest and most pathetic and tender livin<» 
writers. In many of these poems we find instances of the most exquisite versification^ 
combined frequently with descriptive powers that successfully rival Bryant in his own 
realm, and distance every other writer among us. Indeed, there is scarcely a poem in 
this collection that does not sparkle with pure gums."— Albany Stale Register. 

"The genuine inspiration of poetic feeling, . . . replete with tenderness and beauty, 
earnestness and truthful simplicity, and all the attributes of a powerful imagination and 
vivid fancy. We know of no superior to Miss Carey among the female authors of this 
country." — New York Journal of Commerce. 

"To say that Alice Carey is -what Milton would have been, bad Milton been a wo- 
man,' we can not regard as extravagant praise. Her poems have little in common 
with the mass of verses by her sex. She has the strength of the old masters of song, 
•with all the sweetness of a woman. She has a wealth of imagery and a felicity in the 
description of nature rarely met."— Portland Transcript. 

" Alice Carey's book is full of beautiful thoughts ; there is draught after draught of 
pure pleasure for the lover of sweet, tender fancies, and imagery which captivates 
while It enforces truth. It is difficult to read Miss Carey's poems without being drawn 
toward her, and thinking that those must be happy who are loved by her; and this is 
one reason why we call her poems feminine."— iVtw) York Ooiirier and Inquirer. 

" 'Lyra and other Poems,' just published oy Redfield, attracts everywhere, a remark- 
able degree of attention. A dozen of the leading journals, and many eminent critics, 
bave pronounced the autlioress the greatest poetess \i\ing."— New York Mirror. 



JTTST PtTBLISHED, 

ISA 

A PILGRIMAGE. 

BY CAROLINE CHESEBRO'. 

In one yolume, 12mo., cloth, price $1.00. Second Edition. 

" Miss Chpsebro' has conquered a high place in a difficult sphere of literary creation. 
Without indulging in superfluous comparisons, we tell her that she need not envy the 
position of any female writer in this country. Her vigorous originality is a pledge of 
ability for future triumphs. But if she shall leave no other memorial of her gifted 
nature, it is no mean fame to have been the writer of 'Isa's Pilgrimage.' " — New York 
Daily Tribune. 

"The character of Isa is unique and extraordinary, requiring a powerful imagina- 
tion to conceive, and a master-pen to portray. The style is vigorous as well as luxu- 
riant, argumeritative as well as imaginative, and carries a wild and weird spell to the 
heart of the reader." — Home Journal. 

" To many the book will be merely a powerfully-wrought fiction, which they will 
read at a grasp, and fling aside when they have gulped the denouement, as they do the 
scores of novels which are constantly pouring from the press ; but to all who thiuK as 
well as read, it will prove something more and better." — Albany Daily State Register. 

"The author has drawn a melancholy picture illustrative of the fallibility of human 
judgment, and her tale, rightly understood, is a moral lesson of no inconsiderable 
force." — Boston Journal. 

" The writer of this volume, we believe, had high intentions of doing a great and 
good thing : it has marks of genius, truth, and feeling in it, and much of it is greatly 
to our mind." — New York Observer. 

"This is a work of more ambitious aim than that of the generality of brief works of 
fiction. The character of the heroine is powerfully sustained, the subordinate charac- 
ters well developed, and the work elevated and healthy in tone." — Literary World. 

" She evidently possesses great facility with the pen, and bids fair to make rapid 
progress in the path of letters. From a perusal of this new work, we have no hesita- 
tion in saying that she possesses a comprehensive, inventive, and brilliant mind, capa- 
ble of conceiving strange scenes and positions, and reasoning upon them in sparkling 
language." — True Democrat. 

" The Pilgrimage is fraught throughout with scenes of thrilling interest — romantic, 
yet possessing a naturalness that seems to stamp them as real ; the style is flowing and 
easy, chaste and beautiful." — Troy Daily Times. 

"Miss Chesebro' is evidently a thinker — she skims not the mere surface of life, but 
plunges boldly into the hidden mysteries of the spirit, by which she is warranted in 
making her startling revelations of human passion." — Christian Freeman. 

" There comes out in this book the evidence of an inventive mind, a cultivated taste, 
an exquisite sensibility, and a deep knowledge of human r\ht\xre."— Albany Argus. 

" It is a charming book, pervaded by a vein of pure ennobling thought." — Troy Whig. 

«« There is no one who will doubt that this is a courageous and able work, displaying 
genius and depth of feeling, and striking at a high and noble aim." — N. Y. Evangelist. 

•' There is a fine vein of tenderness running through the story, which is peculiarly 
one of passion and sentiment." — Arthur's Home Gazette. 

" We have here a picture of the pilgrimage of life, made by one who has climbed the 
hill sufficiently high to make a retrospect of the past, give much of actual experience, 
and dart a glance along the vista lying before. Whoever follows her attentively 
through this volume will be the better fitted for the journey which all on earth must 
travel." — Christian Intelligencer. 

"■ This is the production of a writer of considerable fancy, and good descriptive 
powers." — Richmond Religious Herald. 

" She holds a ready pen, and the pages evince a woman of deep thought." — Boston 
Evening Gazette. 



Clotmnnnk; 



OR, 

RECOLLECTIONS OF OUR HOME IN THE WEST. 

By ALICE CAREY. 
Illustrated hy Darlet. One vol.^ 12mo. 



« We do not hesitate to predict for these sketches a wide popularity. ' 
They bear the true stamp of genius — simple, natural, truthful — and evince 
a keen sense of the humor and pathos, of the comedy and tragedy, of life 
in the country. No one who has ever read it can forget the sad and beau- ■ 
tiful story of Mary Wildermings ; its weird fancy, tenderness, and beauty ; 
its touching description of the emotions of a sick and suffering human spirit, 
and its exquisite rural pictures. The moral tone of Alice Carey's writings 
is unobjectionable always." — J. G. Whittieii. 

" Miss Carey's experience has been in the midst of rural occupations, m 
the interior of Ohio. Every word here reflects this experience, in the rar- 
est shapes, and most exquisite hues. The opinion now appears to be com- 
monly entertained, that Alice Carey is decidedly the first of our female au- 
thors ; an opinion which Fitz-Greene Halleck, J. G. Whittier, Dr. Griswold, 
Wm. D. Gallagher, Bayard Taylor, with many others, have on various ^ 
occasions endorsed." — Illustrated News. j 

" If we look at the entire catalogue of female writers of prose fiction in ' 
this country, we shall find no one who approaches Alice Carey in the best 
characteristics of genius. Like all genuine authors she has peculiarities; 
her hand is detected as unerringly as that of Poe or Hawthorne ; as much 
as they she is apart from others and above others ; and her sketches of 
country life must, we think, be admitted to be superior even to those delight- 
ful tales of Miss Mitford, which, in a similar line, are generally acknowledged 
*o be equal to anything done in England." — International Magazine. 

" Alice Carey has perhaps the strongest imagination among the women 
of this country. Her writings will live longer than those of any other 
woman among us." — American Whig Review. 

" Alice Carey has a fine, rich, and purely original genius. Her country 
stories are almost unequaled." — Knickerbocker Magazine. 

« Miss Carey's sketches are remarkably fresh, and exquisite in delicacy, 
humor, and pathos. She is booked for immortality." — Home Journal. 

"The Times speaks of Alice Carey as standing at the head of the living 
female writers of America. We go even farther in our favorable judgment, 
and express the opinion that among those living or dead, she has had no 
equal in this country ; and we know of few in the annals of English litera- 
ture who have exhibited superior gifts of real poetic genius." — The (Portland^ 
Me.) Eelectic. 



MISS CHESEBRO'S NEW WORK. 

DREAM-LAND BY DAYLIGHT; 

A 

PAl^OEAMA OF E0MA:N"CE. 
By CAROLINE CHESEBRO. 

Illustrated hy Daelet. One vol.^ 12mo. 



*' These simple and beautiful stories are all highly endued with an exquisite 
perception of natural beauty, with which is combined an appreciative sense of its 
relation to the highest moral emotions." — Albany State Register. 

" There is a fine vein of pure and holy thought pervading every tale in the vol- 
ume ; and every lover of "the beautiful and true will feel while perusing it that 
he is conversing with a kindred spirit.'' — Albany Evening Atlas. 

" The journey through Dream-Land will be found full of pleasure ; and when 
one returns from it, he will have his mind filled with good suggestions for practi- 
cal life." — Rochester Dernoci-at. 

" The anticipations we have had of this promised book are more than realized. 
It is a collection of beautiful sketches, in which the cultivated imagination of the 
Euthoress has interwoven the visions of Dream-Land with the realities of life." 

Ontario Messenger. 

" The dedication, in its sweet and touching purity of emotion, is itself an ear- 
nest of the many 'blessed household voices' that come up from the heart's clear 
depth, throughout the book." — Ontario Repository. 

" Gladly do we gi-eet this floweret in the field of our literature, for it is fragrant 
with sweets and bright with hues that mark it to be of Heaven's own planting." 

Courier and Enquirer. 

" There is a depth of sentiment and feeling not ordinarily met with, and some 
of the noblest faculties and affections of man's nature are depicted and illustrated 
by the skilful pen of the authoress." — Churchman. 

" This collection of stories fully sustains her previous reputation, and also gives 
a brilliant promise of future eminence in this department of literature." 

Tribune. 

*' We find in this volume unmistakeable evidences of originality of mind, an 
almost superfluous depth of reflection for the department of composition to which 
it is devoted, a rare facility in seizing the multiform aspects of nature, and a still 
rarer power of giving them the form and hue of imagination, without destroying 
their identity." — Harper's Magazine. 

"In all the productions of Miss Chesebro's pen is evident a delicate perception 
of the relation of natural beauty to the moral emotions, and a deep love of the true 
and the beautiful in art and nature." — Day-Book. 



A NEW AND POPULAR VOLUME. 

TALES AND TKADITIOKS 

OF 

HUNGARY. 

BY THERESA PULSZKY. 

With a Portrait of the Author. 

In One Volume, Cloth-Price, $1 25. 

The above contains, in addition to the Engli3h publication, a new Phefack, and 
Tales, now first printed from the manuscript of the Author, who has a direct interest in 
the pubUcation, 

CONTENTS. 

1. The Baron's Daughter. 

2. The Castle of Zipsen. 

3. Yanoshik, the Robber. 

4. The Free Shot. 

5. The Golden Cross of Korosfo. 

6. The Guardians. 

7. The Love of the Angels. 

8. The ]\Iaid and the Genii. 

9. Ashmodai, the Lame Demon. 
10. The Nun of Rauchenbach. 



21. Tradition of the Hungarian Race. 



11. The Cloister of Manastir. 

12. Pan Twardowsky. 

13. The Poor Tartar. 

14. The Maidens' Castle. 

15. Tlie Hair of the Orphan Girl. 

16. The Rocks of Lipnik. 

17. Jack, the Horse-Dealer. 

18. Klingsohr of Hungary. 
19 Yanosh, the Hero. 
20. The Hungarian Outlaws. 



"M.\DAME PuLszKY is familiar with these traditions ot the people, and has perfectly 
succeeded m ucttnig them into an attiactive form, with some purely original tales from 
her own pen "— fForcesifT iY«</o/(«Z ^ffjs. 

*' llie legends in this work are very beautiful, full of interest, varied and sparkUng in 
style."— 5os«o?i Olive. Branch. ^ ^ 

" Sb-ikingly illustrative of the manners and customs that have prevailed in difiFerent 
periods of her history, it is written with graceful yet dignified freedom. "-^/6awy Ar/?' 

" Ihe stones are ot a wild and fancilul character, which will cause them to bo read 
with interest by all, while they really throw light upon the early history and manners 
of Hungary:'— Albany Express. j j 

'Remarkably well written, and illustrative, in an eminent degree, of the different 
epochs in the history of Hungary, and present distinct phases of Hungarian life, painted 
in glowing cohns and interwoven with the vigorous play of a hvely imagination."— 
Albany Daily Register. jo 

"They are tersely and descriptively written, and give the reader a better insight into 
the ancient and peculiar characteristics of this people than can be gathered from any 
mei-e. history."— Bunker Hill Aurora ^ b j 

" Some of them are exceedin-ly beautiful, and indicate the character and habits of 
thought ol the people better than anything we have seen."— ;V. O. Journal and Courier. 
_ 1 he author enters into the legendary life of her own country, and transfuses them 
mto a language that ehe has njastered so as to write it with uncommon purity aud 
correctiwsa"— Dull pc7ident. ^ ■' 

"Thi.s work claims more attention than is ordinarily given to books of its class, 
fcucli IS the Kuency and correctnei^s— nay, even the nicety and felicity of style— with 
which Madame Pulszky writes the English langua-e, that merely in this respect the 
tales here ollpcted form a curious study "—London Er.amhter 

" Freshness ol sul)ject is invaluable in literature— Hungary is still fresh ground It 
has heen trodden, but it is not yet a common hi-bway. The tales and leirends are very 
various, trom the mere traditional anecdote to the regular leijend. and they have the 
sort ol interest which all national traditions exvite:'—LoTu/on Leader 

"Madam Puls'/ky has a .=peci;d budu'et of her own. The leuend of 'The Castle of 

Zipsen 18 to d With racy humor. Whimsically absurd are the matrimonial difiicuities 

• ?.''. « 1 anna Twardow.sky, as here related; while the fate of Vendelin Drugeth 

gives that hne old legend a m<.re orthodox ;,nd edifyine close than the original version 

possesses. Most intercstinjj of all are ' The Hungarian Outlaws.' ''-London Athenaum. 



NEW AND FASCINATING WORK. 

MEN AND WOMEN 

OF THE 

EIGHTEENTH CENTURY, 

BY ARSENE HOUSSAYE. 

"With beautifully-engraved Portraits of Louis XV. and Mad. de Pompadour. 

In Two Vols. 12/no., on extra superfine paper, 450 'pages each, 
Cloth, Price $2 50. 

Contents. — Dufresny, Fontenelle, Marivaux, Piron, The Abbg Prevost, Gentil-Bemard, 

Florian, Boufflers, Diderot, Gretiy, Rivarol, Louis XV., Greuze, Boucher, The Van. 

loos, Lantara, Watteau, La Motte, Dehle, Abbe Trublet, Buffon, Dorat, Cardinal de 

Bernis, Crebillon the Gay, Marie Antoinette, Madame de Pompadour, Vade, Mdlle. Ca- 

margo, Mdlle. Clairon, Madame de la Popeliniere, Sophie Arnould, Crebillon the 

Tragic, Mdlle. Guimard, Three Pages from the Life of Dancourt, A Promenade in the 

Palais-Royal, the Chevalier de la Clos. 

" A more fascinating book than this rarely issues from the teeming press. Fascina- 
ting in its subject ; fascinating in its style ; fascinating in its power to lead the reader 
into castle-building of the most gorgeous and bewitching description. The men and 
women of the last century, whose characteristics and habits of life the author makes his 
theme, are French men and women. The Court of Louis XV. is the ground — not classic 
ground, not romantic, far from hallow(?d, and yet enchanted — upon which he treads. 
His step befits the place. He handles his subject daintily, elegantly, and with an appa- 
rent consciousness of the bewildering etiJect he is producing." — Courier and Enquirer. 

" A Book of books. — Two deliciously spicy volumes, that are a perfect bonne bouche 
for an epicure in reading, have just been published by Redfield. They are called 'The 
Men and Women of the Eighteenth Century,' translated from the French of Arsene 
Houssaye. Anecdotes, gossip, history, biography, are admirably mingled, and, in the 
clear, bright, sunny English they have licen transplanted into, they form as agreeable a 
book as the season can show." — Home Journal. 

" A combination of the light graces of literature with a profoxmd philosophic insight, 
such as is rarely found but among French writers, is essential in an historian of the eigh- 
teenth century. We find such a combination in the brilliant work, the ' Men and Wo- 
men of the Eighteenth Centuiy,' by Arsene Houssaye." — Literary World. 

" In the volumes of Arsene Houssaye before us, these gay but unsubstantial shadows 
take flesh and blood, and become the Men and Women — the living realities of the Eigh- 
teenth Century." — International Magazine. 

" These two beautiful volumes are worthy the perusal of every intelligent reader. Mr. 
Houssaye has opened a new path in the common every-day field of literature, his sub- 
jects are of the deepest interest and he handles them with an accomplished pen."— 
Buffalo Daily Ledger. 

" They indeed furnish a most impressive picture of France, during that century, as 
seen in her princes, philosophers, poets, painters, actors, dancers, &c." — Boston Traveler. 

•' It presents by far the best portrait of the prominent figures of the age to which it re- 
fers, that we know of in the English language." — Eveniiig Post. 

" In these volumes are contained the sketches of the beaJix esprits of the reign of Louis 
XV. — a period notorious for the profligacy of the court, as it was remarkable for its in- 
fluential literary coteries, which gathered the wit and talent of the age." — Boston Jour- 
nal. 

'• They reveal the familiar life of the time, disclose the inmost traits of thought and the 
hidden motives of action, and furnish in all respects a glass in which we may view the 
past age." — Brooklyn Everting Star. 

" While they are true to the history of the times, and the men and women of the times, 
they are as entertaining as the stories of the Arabian nights." — Bunker Hill Aurora. 

" The author has laid his hand upon the dead heart of that age, reanimated the illustri- 
ous dead who adorn it, and brought out before us of the present century — for inspec- 
tion, admiration, and criticism — its poets, philosophers, statemen, authors, artists, and 
wits." — Albany State Register. 

" We think, indeed, that we have never met with anything that carries us so entirely 
into the interior hfe of French society in that age." — Albany Express. 



JUST PUBLISHED, 

LAYS OF THE SCOTTISH CAVALIERS. 

By WILLIAM E. AYTOUJSr, 

PBOKE8SOB OF LITEKATURE AND BELLES LETTRES IN THE UNIVERSITY OF BDINBUBQ^ 
AND EDITOR OF BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. 

One Yolume^ 12mo., Cloth — Pkice $1. 

"These strains belons: to stirring and pathetic events, and until poetic descriptiona 
of them shall be disregarded, we think Mr. Aytoun's productions well calculated to 
maintain a favorite place in public estimation." — Literary Gazette. 

" The ballads in question are strongly tinged by deep national feeling, and remind the 
reader of Macaulay's ' Lays of Ancient Rome ;' and, from the more picturesque nature 
of the subject, are, perhaps, even still more highly colored. ' Edinburgh after Flod- 
den,' 'the Death of Monti-ose,' and ' the Battle of Kiliecranke,' are strains which Scotch- 
men will not willingly let die." — Mcti of the Time in 1852. 

" Choosing from the ample range of Scottish history, occasions which are near and 
dear to the popular sympathy of his country, Mr Aytoun, confident of the force of 
strong convictions and a direct appeal to the elementary emotions of the human heart, 
has presented us eight noble lays— clear in feeling, simple and direct in expression, 
and happily varied and variable in measure, which will, we are confident, outlive many, 
il not all, of his more pretentious and ornamented contemporaries." — Literary World. 



ALSO, 

THE BOOK or BALLADS. 

EDITED BY 

BOK GAULTIEK. 

One Volume, 12?no., Cloth — Pkice T5 cts, 

" Bon Gaultier himself, his wit, satire, and versification, remained a ' Yarrow un» 
yisited.' The opuscula of that humorous writer, somehow marvellously escaping the 
prehensile finsers of our publishers, were yet unknown to American readers ; though 
an occasional whiff and stray aroma ol the choice volume had now and then transpired 
through the columns of a magazine or newspaper. 

*' Bon Gaultier's Book of Ballads is simply the wittiest and best thing of the kind since 
the Rejected Addresses. Its parodies of Lockhart (in the ."Spanish Ballads), of Tenny- 
son (his lovely sing-song puerilities), of Macaulay (the sounding Roman strain), of 
Moses (the ' puff poetical'), are, with a dozen others, in various ways, any of them 
equal to the famous Crabbe, and Scott, and Coleridge of the re-ascending Drury Lane." 
Literary World. 



IN PRESS, 



Jfia non Lescaut. 

The Abbe Prevost. 



REDFIELD S NEW AND POPULAR PUBLICATIONS. 



WORKS IN PREPARATION. 

MEN OF THE TIME IN 1852; 

Or, Sketches of Living Notables : Authors, Architects, Artists, 
Composers, Demagogues, Divines, Dramatists, Engineers, Jour- 
nalists, Monarchs, Ministers, Novelists, Philanthropists, Politi- 
cians, Poets, Preachers, Savans, Statesmen, Travellers, Voyagers, 
Warriors, etc. One vol., 12mo. 

PHILOSOPHERS AND ACTRESSES. 

By Arsene Houssaye. With beautifully-engraved Portraits of 
Voltaire and Mad. Parabere. Two vols., 12mo. 

THE HISTORY OF THE CRUSADES. 

By Joseph Francois Michaud. Translated by Robson. Three 
vols., 12mo. 

OUTLINES OF COMPARATIVE PHYSIOGNOMY. 

By J. W. Redfielb, M.D. 8vo, paper, with numerous illustra- 
tions. Price 50 cents. 

JAPAN; HISTORICAL, SOCIAL, AND INDUSTRIAL. 

By C. LuDWiG, J. U. D. Wiih maps, and other illustrations, from 
the best and latest authorities. 

ANCIENT EGYPT UNDER THE PHARAOHS. 
By John Kendrick, M. A. In 2 vols., 12mo. 

NEWMANS REGAL ROME. 
In 1 vol., 12mo. Price 75 cents. 

FATHER MARQUETTE'S DISCOVERY 

And Exploration of the Valley and River of the Mississippi. By 
John J. Shea. With fac-similies and a copy of his map. Now 
first translated from the original manuscripts. In 1 vol., Svo. 

HAGAR, THE PENITENT. 

A new work by Alice Carey, author of " Clovernook," " Lyra, 
and Other Poems," &c. 

THE CHILDREN OF LIGHT. 

A new work by Caroline Chesebro', author of " Tsa, a Pilgrim- 
age," and *' Dream Land by Daylight." 

THE MASTER BUILDER; 

Or, Life in the City. By Day Kellogg Lee, author of " Sum- 
merfield, or Life on the Farm." 

THE CHEVALIERS OF FRANCE; 
From the Crusaders to the Mareschals of Louis XIV. By Henry 
William Herbert. ^One..volB|i.2mo. 

719 



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